


Brothers in Arms

by mangochi, Warrior717



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Male Friendship, Mission Fic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 81,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warrior717/pseuds/Warrior717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a simple mission, really. There was nothing on their radar that had given them the notion to expect otherwise. For James T. Kirk, however, nothing ever seemed to go as planned.-a collab with Warrior717 (All chapters now available in audiobook!:) )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey there, so this is my first collaborative fic done with the lovely Warrior717 featuring our favorite space triumvirate (expect no slashing here, friends), and we both hope that you'll enjoy this merry buddy adventure. :) :) :) Reviews and feedback are much welcome, as always, and indeed greatly encouraged, so knock yourselves out.

"Damn it, Jim!" McCoy exploded, glaring at the tricorder. He waved it closer to Jim's torso, as if trying to physically force the readings to change, the vein in his temple throbbing stressfully with every intermittent beep that emitted from the device.

"How bad is it?" Jim asked anxiously, the hem of his shirt still tucked between his chin and chest. Spock hovered at his side, scrutinizing the small, circular protuberance above Jim’s sternum with a scientific intensity that slightly unnerved Jim. He could feel the disk pressing uncomfortably against his chest with every nervous heartbeat, something that did not belong in his body but was distinctly there, lodged just underneath his skin.

"Bad," McCoy said shortly, lowering the tricorder. He pushed up the sleeves of his black undershirt irritably, the fabric clinging to his slightly damp forearms. The air here was still, the desert heat seeping through the very walls. McCoy and Jim had shed their outer shirts long since, and McCoy, claiming that the sight of Spock still fully dressed despite the heat disturbed him, ordered the first officer to remove his as well, ignoring the Vulcan's mild protests that he was well acclimated to such temperatures.

Jim sighed resignedly, rolling his shirt back down gingerly over his chest before absently running his hand over the tender area, feeling his heartbeat push the small disk against his palm with every pulse. “So what’s the verdict, doc?”

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting bitterly at the floor. “It’s a bomb.”

Jim stared, jaw slack. Funny, he’d thought McCoy had just said that there was _a bomb_ in his chest. “Come again?” Maybe he had heard wrong, though the plummeting of his stomach told him otherwise.

McCoy ran a hand up his face, distractedly tugging at his own hair. “Damn it, I knew this was a bad idea!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know we were going to be ambushed by a group of lethal terrorists?” Jim retorted, feeling a sting of unfairness. After all, the doctor hadn’t exactly vetoed the mission at the time. None of them had, in the beginning.

It was supposed to be a simple mission, really. There was nothing on their radar that had given them the notion to expect otherwise. For James T. Kirk, however, nothing ever seemed to go as planned, and he probably should have known better than to expect any different. After Starfleet received an unusual distress call from a planet they had previously believed to be abandoned by Klingons, the _Enterprise_ warped into duty to investigate the strange occurrence. The call had only been an isolated event, yet they had substantial reason to believe it was legitimate in its urgency.

The initial plan was relatively clear from the beginning, despite the muck it had swiftly become. Jim had easily and perhaps all too predictably, chosen Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy, and himself to beam down to the planet’s surface to investigate. Though the three naturally proceeded with caution, none of them had thought the situation to be threatening by any means, and believed that the investigation would most likely involve very few inhabitants.

A shuttle, filled with essential and emergency medical resources, would remain on standby aboard the _Enterprise_ , and would only be permitted to land by captain’s orders upon confirmation that the situation was clear. Unfortunately though, to the consternation of every waiting personnel aboard the ship, that moment never came.

As soon as they beamed onto the surface, blinking into the glaring sunlight, Jim had felt the prickling sensation of hidden eyes lingering on him. When the spots had finally faded from his vision, he had looked around, taking in the wasteland around him, and realized, with a jolt of chilling trepidation, that the scene looked all too familiar for his liking.

The ground was dry and cracked beneath his feet, its rusty surface striped with the dark shadows of the towering ruins scattered across the otherwise barren land. They rose in crumbled spires and unformed mounds, black empty windows like hollow eyes in the sloping walls. It had been a magnificent city once, Jim suspected, though it was no more. He could see a dip where a fountain could have once stood, a scattering of cobbles where a white street used to wind, alleys and passages where children might have once ran and laughed and climbed the spiraling towers **.** It was a beautiful, though haunting sight, and it was difficult for Jim to envision the Klingon civilization that had once thrived here long ago.

But there were no children here now, no silvery laughter in the scorching wind, no clear water in the fountains. Jim blinked the powdery dust from his eyes, which lingered in the air much like the planet's harrowing past, and turned back to the shuttle. McCoy was huddling miserably in the shade of a jutting chunk of wall, peering ill-manneredly around like some sort of peeved, heat-intolerant turtle. "It's hot," he snarled, when Jim looked askance. "Georgia's got nothing on this place."

"I find the temperature most satisfactory," Spock remarked mildly, straightening from where he had been examining the remains of a long-shattered urn. He did look comfortable, Jim supposed, not a drop of sweat on his face, and his pupils undilated by the blinding sunlight. But it wasn't as if Vulcans sweated anyway, and Spock's cool exterior was starting to seriously irk Jim more than he cared to admit.

"Come on, Bones," Jim chided, trying to look as if the heat hadn't been getting to him, too. Iowan summers were practically chilly in comparison. "We've got a job to do."

"There's no one here," McCoy said grumpily. "Not a damn soul, and I don't blame them. I vote we quit now and get the hell out of Dodge while we still can."

"We just got here." Jim tried hard not to sound exasperated. He knew how much McCoy hated the transporter. "Might as well look around a bit."

With a long-suffering sigh, McCoy dragged himself to his feet, scowling. "All right, let's get this over with. Spock, come here, at least let me stand in your shade…."

The three of them wandered through the ravaged city, one of them occasionally pointing out a particular point of interest. Spock and McCoy stopped intermittently to perform a scan or collect a sample, leaving Jim awkwardly dithering behind them. When McCoy narrowly avoided stepping on a large insect-like crustacean, emitting a high-pitched shriek, Spock insisted that they stop and capture the specimen for closer observation. This mostly consisted of McCoy standing on a rock and pointing wildly while Spock scrambled around determinedly.

Jim was watching the spectacle with no small amusement when he heard the sound. It was a quiet clatter, like clacking stones. He looked around curiously and saw nothing but the rough walls of the surrounding buildings, the reddish dust so worn into the grain of the stone itself until he could no longer tell where the dirt ended and where the original color began. By the time he decided it was nothing, he heard the sound again, in a slightly different direction.

He glanced back at his friends, the two of them still absorbed in their quest for the terrified bug-thing. _They can handle themselves_ , he reasoned. _It'll just be a second_ …

The memory of hidden eyes gave him pause for a few seconds. _It was nothing_ , he decided. _You're getting to be paranoid like Bones_. The planet was abandoned, after all. There was no one here to watch them, and if those invisible eyes belonged to whoever had sent the distress signal, why had they not revealed themselves? He would take a quick look and be back before McCoy and Spock even noticed he was gone. And if something did happen....well, he could take care of himself as well as anyone.

With that firmly in mind, Jim slipped around the corner and padded off in the direction of the peculiar sound. He heard another distant shout from McCoy and an exasperated response from Spock in turn. And there was the noise still, louder this time, almost insistent. Curiosity mounting, he turned the corner, and found himself practically toe-to-toe with a cold-eyed man in light-colored, rather hodgepodge fatigues.

He had reeled back, mouth opening to emit a startled shout, when he had felt a shocking jolt in the center of his back, more of a numbing force than pain, and everything had gone black.

He woke in phases, his consciousness surging and receding on the tides of awareness. Blurry voices and hazy words drifting so mercurially through his mind that he wasn't sure half the time if he had dreamed them. Pieces of sentences ebbed with the rising and falling of a distant, prickling sensation. A tickle on his chest, a strange throbbing in his ears-

“… _.careful with that....”_

“ _...Starfleet scum....”_

His head hurt, but that wasn't all that hurt. His chest ached, something was wrong with....with his...he couldn't breathe, couldn't see-

“… _.he’s in AF rhythm....gotta.....back on...”_

Something cool and slick against his chest, tingling where it touched his skin. A mumbling voice fading into incoherency.....

_“….signal....when he wakes...”_

_“…clear!...”_

A dull jolt that shuddered through his body, his heels smacking against a firm surface.

_“…still irregular….Again!.....”_

Another jolt, his back arching up before falling flat, and everything was mercifully dark once more.

He had woken in blackness, a prickling throbbing over his chest that itched every time his shirt brushed against his skin. Jim groaned and rolled over….or tried. His limbs were held down to a hard surface with what felt like thick straps over his wrists and ankles. He had heard sounds of fighting from what sounded like the next room over, the humming of phasers and muffled, cut-off shouts.

Then Spock kicked down the door, phaser in hand, looking so much like the hero from the sort of juvenile action films Jim used to watch as a kid that he had to fight back a hysterical guffaw at the sight of the Vulcan silhouetted against the bright light from the corridor. Like some kind of caped crusader.

“I guess this makes me the princess,” he croaked, a grin twitching at his lips.

"Captain!" Spock rushed forward instantly, reaching for the leather cuffs that kept Jim flat on the operating table. Behind him in the corridor, Jim saw a figure fly backwards out of sight with a surprised grunt and heard a slightly crazed voice shouting from a distance, "Take that, you muscle-bound Neanderthal!"

"Is that Bones?" he asked, amusement battling with concern for his friend.

"The doctor is, surprisingly, a good shot," Spock murmured offhandedly, still fumbling with the restraints.

"Well, he ought to be," Jim replied, not without a touch of pride. "I taught him everything he knows, after all."

Spock gave him an inquiring look, pulling a strap loose as he did so.

"What, did you think I'd bring Bones down here with us without knowing how to defend himself, doctor or not?"

Spock didn't answer, but he had a contemplative expression that might have been a new level of grudging respect for McCoy as he concentrated on his work again.

With a small noise of satisfaction, he succeeded in undoing the cuffs on Jim's ankles and moved over to begin on the wrists. He jostled a boxy machine on a mobile cart with his leg as he moved, sending it rattling away a short distance. It was a defibrillator, Jim noticed distantly- an older model with paddles that he hadn't seen other than in basic training at the Academy.

The restraints on Jim's wrists fell away and he pushed himself up to a sitting position with a pained groan, popping his neck with a jerking shrug. 

"That's better," he grunted, rolling his shoulders again. He glanced up at his first officer, then froze, startled. His eyes widened as he looked over Spock's shoulder and saw the man positioned in the doorway, leveling a phaser rifle with an unmistakable intent. But it wasn't that alone that caused Jim's heart to nearly skip a beat, but that the rifle was aimed directly at-

“Spock!” Jim was launching off the table before his mind had quite caught up, catching Spock around the waist and knocking him down as the man fired. They both toppled over onto the floor, Jim rolling off Spock's chest with a breathless grunt. The shot went through the space where Spock had been standing a mere second ago, hitting the defibrillator with an ominous sparking sound and a great deal of smoke.

There was a muffled curse and a scuffle at the door as the terrorist raised his rifle again, but before he could fire, Spock grabbed his phaser and spun around on his back in one swift motion, shooting the man in the chest with an almost casual ease. Their assailant grunted and fell forward with a thump, his rifle clattering across the floor.

Spock rose smoothly to his feet a moment later, sliding his phaser back into his belt. “Thank you, Captain.”

"Don't mention it," Jim wheezed, pulling himself up by the edge of the operation table and taking stock of his physical condition automatically. There was a tender spot on his elbow where he had landed on the floor, and his chest hurt, a sort of pulsing pain that prodded oddly at his sternum. He passed a hand over his torso absently and winced at the sudden stab of pain a few inches beneath his collarbone. He looked down at himself, surprised. "What the-"

Spock's hand was moving before Jim’s brain could register it, gripping the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up to his shoulders in one fluid movement.

"Whoa, there, what-"

"Jim," Spock said with a terrifying calmness, his eyes fixed steadily on Jim's bare chest. "What is that?"

Jim cringed self-consciously, brushing Spock's hand aside so he could peer down at his own chest. "Oh, shit."

There was a short, jagged incision right above his sternum, the new skin gleaming white where it was obvious a dermal regenerator had recently passed over it. Just under and slightly to the left of the scar was a shallow bump. It was roughly the size and shape of a poker chip, protruding barely enough from under Jim's skin for him to tell that something was very wrong.

It was then that McCoy appeared, panting and covered in sweat. He raised his phaser grimly, a still slightly maniacal gleam in his eyes. "The suckers," he huffed. "Never saw me coming."

"Yeah, who'd look twice at a middle-aged couch slouch like you, Bones?" Jim joked lightly, a trigger reflex after all these years. He opened his mouth again, intending to inform McCoy of the dangers of a growing paunch, when Spock efficiently stepped in.

"Doctor, the captain appears to have a foreign implant."      

"What?" McCoy dropped the phaser immediately and hurried forward, stepping over the prone man in the doorway gingerly and elbowing Spock aside in his haste to reach Jim. He reached out and gently probed at the disk, even that slight movement sending an uncomfortable surge up Jim's spine. "Does that hurt?"

"No," Jim forced through gritted teeth. "Not really."

McCoy leaned back, rummaging in the medkit strapped at his waist. "Hold on, I'll need to scan-"

"Bones, it can wait," Jim said impatiently. “What the hell happened out there?!" He gestured at the corridor, where he could still see the legs of the man that McCoy had sent flying.

The doctor readily ignored him, fishing out his tricorder and passing it obsessively over Jim's torso. Jim tried to ignore the erratic beeping from the device, looking instead to his first officer for answers.

"You were kidnapped, Jim," Spock supplied helpfully.

"Yes, thank you, Spock-"

"That damn bug," McCoy grumbled, without looking up. "After we caught the wretched thing, we turned around and you were gone. Spock tracked down your communicator signal like some sort of bloodhound, and we followed you here."

“The ship-”    

“We’ve been trying to contact her since you disappeared.” McCoy’s grim expression told Jim everything he needed to know about how well that had gone. That, or he was simply frowning at the results on his tricorder screen, which wasn't a much better conclusion.

“The hostiles must possess a jamming device here,” Spock said. “Our best course of action would be to locate it and attempt to reverse its effects before more time passes.”

Jim’s head snapped up in sudden realization. “More time? How long has it been?”

“We’ve been on this damn planet for, what, two days now, I think?” McCoy hedged, glancing questioningly at Spock.

"You have been missing for twenty-six hours and thirty-four minutes, Jim," Spock said. "Locating you became substantially more….challenging when your signal disappeared. We can only assume that the terrorists destroyed your communicator upon realizing that the locator was still fully functional."

Now it was McCoy's turn to jerk in shock. "What? Who said anything about terrorists?"

Spock furrowed his brows quizzically at McCoy, as if perfectly surprised that the doctor hadn't come to the same natural conclusion as he had. "Of course, Doctor. Judging by the non-standard issue of the hostiles' technology and armament, as well as their...extreme methods of avoiding further questioning, one can only assume that they were not dispatched by any legitimate government. That, paired with the fact that they kidnapped the captain-" his voice had delved into a dryer tone that would have been considered sarcastic from anyone else, "-naturally, we can safely conclude that these must be vigilante’s intent on damaging the Federation." _Idiot,_ his eyebrow said.

Jim, struggling to filter through that particularly thick onslaught of technicality, felt a sudden need to backtrack a couple of steps. A lot of steps, really. “Hold up, _what?_ What extreme methods?”

Spock and McCoy exchanged a solemn look, the latter seemingly attempting to prompt the former into answering through increasingly non-subtle visual cues. When Spock did nothing more than look at him patiently, McCoy turned back to Jim, a muscle in his jaw tensing as he responded, “Some of them got away, Jim. They must have had a shuttle stashed away somewhere. We didn't even see it until it shot over our heads. The ones they left behind are out there-” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the hallway. “They were alive when I stunned them, I swear, but when I checked afterwards....” he trailed off, shaking his head in disgust. “What kind of resolve does a man have to have to kill himself like that?”

“Whatever it is, I’m willing to bet they have a lot of it,” Jim said grimly. “If they were against Starfleet, they'd never let themselves be captured. Not if they thought they'd be interrogated.”

There was a short pause. Jim suddenly had a very bad feeling about whatever had been shoved inside his chest. “But what would a group of terrorists have against Starfleet?”

“No organization exists that does not have at least a few enemies,” Spock said mildly. “Especially an organization holding as much intergalactic influence as Starfleet.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “If you don't know, just say so.”

“Do _you_ know?” McCoy asked suddenly, eyeing Jim with sudden interest. “They had you here for almost a whole day- did they say anything?”

Jim frowned, struggling to recall the hazy bits of memory. It was like trying to remember a forgotten dream, a blurry half-dissolved recollection that refused to be completely grasped. “It’s….kind of weird,” he said slowly, squinting in concentration. “They said a few things, I think, but nothing that made sense.” His eyes drifted over to the defibrillator on the cart, still feebly coughing smoke, and remembered the cool slickness against his chest, the hard jolt shuddering through his body. “They might have used _that_ , I think I remember….”

Two pairs of eyes turned to regard the damaged machine. There was a short pause before McCoy boiled over. "So you’re saying they used that piece of old-generation crap on you?”

“Pardon my unfamiliarity, Doctor,” Spock interjected, “but what reason could they have for utilizing outdated equipment?”

McCoy shrugged dismissively. “Could be they’re trying to make a point. There’s lots of manic knuckleheads running around these days spouting ‘the old way’s the better way’ and all that.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “Really. But why argue for inferior technology when clearly the new is better?”

“I’m a doctor, kid, not a philosopher. Who knows why the hell they think that? Maybe that’s their beef with Starfleet, us being the leading-edge in developmental technology and whatnot. Or they might just prefer the old-school techniques. You’d be surprised at how many doctors still use variations of this stuff, really….But _that_ ,” McCoy jerked his chin disdainfully at the defibrillator, “that specific model is practically Stone Age material."

“Doctor, to propose that the device dates back to the Stone Age is a gross overstate-”

"Don't you have a ship to contact?" McCoy interrupted impatiently.

Spock bent his head dutifully, fiddling with his communicator with a concentrated tilt of his head.

"What I'd like to know," McCoy continued, frowning contemplatively, "is why it needed to be used in the first place. Back then, it was the go-to method for stabilizing an irregular cardiac rhythm, but why-"

"Irregular rhythm?" Jim interrupted.

"Yea. Some can be fatal, and unless they're shocked back into a normal heart rhythm in time...regardless, the method was never fail proof." McCoy looked curiously at him. "What, do you remember something?"

There was something nagging at the edge of Jim's mind, pulling insistently, but when he tried to grasp it, it slid away into obscurity. Something......a hazy voice.....something about rhythm....

Jim shook his head after a short pause. "No. No, it's probably nothing."

McCoy eyed him suspiciously, looking ready to question him again, but Spock cut in opportunely.

"Communications are still down," he informed them, "though I believe that we will be able to reestablish contact with the ship once the jamming device depletes its energy cells.”

“And how long would that take?” McCoy demanded.

Spock’s brow creased slightly in concentration, no doubt running multiple calculations simultaneously in his mind. “I would not put it at less than one hour."

“Then we’ve got time,” McCoy said briskly, gesturing at Jim. “Pull your shirt up- you’re gonna need a _thorough_ scan.”

It had been fifteen minutes now since Spock’s estimate, and the three of them were still here, standing in the same dismal room he had woken in. Eventually things had calmed down as much as could be expected in this situation, once the shock of discovering the bomb had worn off.

“I _knew_ it was a bad idea,” McCoy repeated, shaking his head.

"Hey, now-"

“Doctor, the bomb?" Spock prompted impatiently. He was probably, Jim realized ruefully, the only completely sane voice left in the room. Jim felt strangely detached himself, even in the current predicament, though he supposed it was only reasonable. It wasn't as if he was needed, really. A captain could always be replaced, just as his own father and Pike had been. And death, it seemed, had always been just around the corner for him. After all, he'd died once already.....

The cold surface of the tricorder sliding against his chest made him flinch, his thoughts dispersing instantly.

“As far as I can tell, it's running directly off your heart,” McCoy was saying, eyes glued to his tricorder. “And for whatever reason, it’s not functioning. Gotta admit, it’s all pretty clever.”

“Not functioning,” Jim repeated somewhat questionably. “So we’ve got some time to figure this out, then.”

McCoy waved a hand impatiently. “Sure, the safety’s on, so to speak. And it means we’re not in any danger of the device self-destructing…..at least not yet,” McCoy added darkly, seemingly unable to resist the pessimistic conclusion.

“The doctor is correct. It is likely that the terrorists programmed a failsafe into the device as a means to ensure eventual detonation, should their initial plan not succeed,” Spock confirmed.

“In this case, they could have planned to do it remotely,” McCoy added speculatively.

Jim stared at him, mind racing. “So what you’re saying is we don’t know when this fail safe will be activated, or how, for that matter.”

“Affirmative, Captain.”   

McCoy frowned, adding, “And since we don’t want to end up blowing the crew up sky high when the _Enterprise_ does come for us, we have no choice but to remove the damn thing ourselves-”

“How do you propose that we do this, Doctor?” Spock interrupted.

The older man sighed, raising a hand to rub at his temple in concentration. “The only reason this thing is still running is because it’s hooked up to Jim's ticker. There's no way to get it out until it's disabled, but there’s no way we can do that without-"

"Stopping my heart," Jim realized suddenly, looking between McCoy and Spock with a foreboding lurch in his stomach. “You’d have to stop my heart.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: All chapters are now available in audiobook! :) You can listen [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171/videos?view=0&shelf_id=0&sort=dd)
> 
> We want to give a special thank you to Mihali1432 for making this awesome cover art for our story/audiobook. Images were used by: bittbox flickr, resensitized deviantart. The link to his other graphic design work can be found [HERE](http://the-dark-arts.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=123241).


	2. Chapter 2

_"Stopping my heart," Jim realized suddenly, looking between McCoy and Spock with a foreboding lurch in his stomach. "You'd have to stop my heart."_

..

Spock’s head turned sharply to regard him, eyes narrowing slightly at the revelation. There was a heavy beat of silence, practically audible in its solemnity. McCoy’s mouth snapped shut with a distinct click, and he looked at Jim warily. “Now, let’s not jump to conclusions.”

"No, that’s it.” Jim was starting to feel a stir of optimism. Finally, they had something to work with. All they needed now was to know how to do it. He paced a couple of steps back and forth, thoughts racing. “We can't just take it out without risking an immediate detonation; the terrorists are too clever for that. So we've got to disable it, first, right? Remove it from its power source, in this case, my heartbeat. If the bomb can be disabled by basically turning off my heart, then we just need to-” he stopped midstep, turning to McCoy and considering him for a moment. “I mean, you could do it right? You’ve got some sort of drug or something in your medkit that you could use?”

"Whether I do or not is beside the point, Jim," McCoy said impatiently. "The _point_ is that-"

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“You can’t just go around turning off your heart!” McCoy exploded. “There’s rules about this kind of thing, you know! This isn’t like holding your breath or whatever fool thing you’re imagining this to be. This is- this is suicide!”

“Temporarily.” Jim corrected.

"What?" McCoy blinked, caught off guard.

"It'd only be temporary, Bones. After all, you _do_ plan to bring me back, right?" Jim asked lightly, a slight, unbidden smirk touching the corners of his mouth.

"By all means, if you think it's that simple," McCoy said keenly, his eyebrows creasing. "Damn it, Jim, there's a lot of things to consider here."

Jim huffed in exasperation. “Enlighten me.”

"Well, as if your heart hasn't been shocked enough already today, we'd need to do it again to bring you back, Jim." McCoy frowned. "Only this time, we'll be restarting your heart from zero, not just nudging at the speedometer. To do that, we'll need a cardiostimulator, and unfortunately, they're all aboard the resource shuttle or in the medbay. Now," he patted the medkit at his waist, "I've got epinephrine on hand, and there's a chance it'll work, but, well, considering your history with hypos before…there's just no way of knowing all the risks."

"The doctor is correct in his assumptions, Captain," Spock said quietly. McCoy looked almost startled at the interruption, as if he had forgotten Spock was even there. Either that, or he was simply surprised at the Vulcan's unexpected support. "The potential harm to your well-being cannot be ignored."

“I’m not ignoring them, I’m…. I just can’t let them get in my way,” Jim argued, frustratingly aware of the feebleness of his position. “Look, we all know this thing is going to go off one way or another once the failsafe activates so, if getting it out means-”

“And what if we can’t get you back?” McCoy demanded. “What then?”

“If it means it’ll at least save your lives, it’s worth the risk.”

“And what about you, Jim? Doesn’t your own life mean anything to you?”

Jim didn’t answer, his gaze set firmly on the floor. McCoy watched him with growing alarm, then glanced at Spock, sharing a moment of mutual concern.

“So what are you saying, Bones?” Jim spoke up suddenly, giving a short laugh that was void of any mirth. “That we’ve got no other options? If you won’t take the risks, then I want you and Spock to get as far from me as you can, because I’m _not_ bringing you down with me.”

Both McCoy and Spock opened their mouths at the same time, but McCoy beat him to it. “Forget about it, Jim, that's not going to happen.”

Jim opened his mouth to object, but McCoy put up his hand, cutting him off. “And…there is another option.”

“What?” Jim demanded, his eyes brightening despite his confusion. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“It’s a....traditional method, you might say," McCoy said reluctantly.

Jim stared at him for a perplexed moment before realization dawned. He nodded his head emphatically, trying to get Spock's attention, then pointed at McCoy and mouthed helpfully to the Vulcan, "He means CPR." He accompanied the message with vague pushing motions away from his chest, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Spock mirrored the expression, intrigued by the exaggerated pantomime, and McCoy rolled his eyes in annoyance at the both of them.

"So, I take it, then, that you two know the basics of _cardiopulmonary resuscitation_ , right? Compressions, Breathing, Airway, all that?"

Spock tilted his head slightly towards the doctor, a suspicious twitch at the corner of the mouth as he responded, "It is a prerequisite certification in basic interspecies medical training courses offered at the Academy.”

“Smartass,” McCoy muttered sourly. “Do you know it or not?”

“I am well-versed in the technique,” Spock responded succinctly. They both turned to eye Jim.

“What? I know CPR!” Jim protested, looking wounded. “Really, Bones, I’m offended that you would think-”

"Wouldn't be the first time you've gotten out of something medically required." McCoy pointed out, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Oh, please, that's different," Jim said dismissively. "Do you know how scary you are with those hypos?"

McCoy cleared his throat meaningfully, “Do you have any idea how many physicals you’ve-“

“Bones, trust me, I took the class.”

This only gave McCoy slight pause before he bellowed right on. "Then you both know it won't be easy, _especially_ considering the fact that we don't even know how long we'll have to keep it up before the _Enterprise_ reaches us!"

"Won't be a problem." Jim said confidently.

McCoy hesitated, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What do you mean?"

Jim gestured meaningfully at his first officer. "Well, we've got Spock, don't we? And with Vulcans being three times stronger than humans--"

"You would know," McCoy muttered.

"Shut up," Jim said somewhat irritably, but there was a slight fondness there as well. He turned to Spock. "So does that include endurance as well?"

“Indeed, Captain," Spock responded warily.

Jim looked back at McCoy with enthusiasm. “See, he could keep up with the compressions for as long as we need it. And when you think about it, it won’t be much different from being on life support, manually speaking."

McCoy looked thoroughly unconvinced, scowling first at Spock and then at Jim. “Sure he could keep it up, but even if I can fix you up when we get back on the ship- considering how long this could go on, that’s still going to be one hell of a beating on you, Jim."

Jim became suddenly conscious of the fact that Spock was staring intently at him from where he stood quietly behind McCoy, and looked away uneasily. The small movement inexplicably sent the world spinning for a brief, disorienting moment, and he rubbed his eyes uncertainly. "Yeah, I've got a good idea," he said vaguely.

McCoy frowned, concerned. “You okay there?”

Jim wavered on his feet slightly before dropping his hand from his face, blinking his eyes rapidly as he tried to focus on his surroundings, "It's nothing. Just a bit lightheaded for a moment," he said finally, looking up and meeting their questioning gazes before adding a little too quickly, “So, I guess we should get this started then, right?”

McCoy gave Jim a hard look, then stepped forward, taking out his tricorder and scanning Jim once more.

Jim rolled his eyes in exasperation, trying not to grimace at the pounding black spots behind his eyes at the movement. "Oh come on, Bones. I already told you, it was noth-"

“Sit,” McCoy ordered sharply, pointing to the operating table. Jim scowled, but reluctantly obeyed, kicking his legs out from the table nervously.

Spock stepped to the table as McCoy continued scanning, observing the process with a clinical interest.

Something caught McCoy's attention, and he frowned, eyebrows furrowing together in concentration as he fiddled with the volume control of the tricorder. Two loud beeps could now be heard emitting from the device.

“What's that?" Jim finally asked.

McCoy responded with a question of his own, giving Jim a pointed glance-over. “How are you feeling right now?”

“I feel fine," Jim said, with no small amount of annoyance.

McCoy performed an impressive rendition of Spock's eyebrow tilt, looking thoroughly unconvinced.

Jim sighed. "I feel a little tired, but that's it. I swear."

"Still feeling dizzy?" McCoy prompted.

Jim paused, taking stock of himself. "No," he answered honestly.

McCoy sighed, scrubbing a hand nervously over his face before looking between Spock and then Jim. “Well, that first beeping sound you heard, that’s your heart. You’re in what’s called Atrial Fibrillation. Don’t ask me how or why, because I can’t answer that. But what it means is that your heart isn’t beating the way it’s supposed to."

"And the source of the second alert?" Spock asked persistently.

McCoy glanced at Jim briefly, his eyes flicking to him and back to Spock so quickly that Jim wasn't even sure if he had caught it. "I didn't want to say just yet...." he hedged reluctantly, "but I think that was the failsafe activating."

Jim stared incredulously for a moment, then couldn't help but exclaim, "And you didn't think that was, I don't know, _important_?"

McCoy flared right back, "Because I knew you'd react like this! Now listen, we can stop it, but we'll have to move fast. So let's get started." He paused for a moment and looked at Jim's shirt pointedly. "And you'll have to take that off."

Jim hesitated for a second, then slowly grinned and stood, hands ready at the hem of his shirt, but was unable to resist a final shot. "If that's how you like it."

McCoy snorted with reluctant amusement. "You may be easy on the eyes, kid, but you ain't my type."

Jim leaned back against the table casually. "Oh? Then what-"

"If," Spock said acidly, "you two would not mind postponing your discussion of human courtship protocol, I believe we are on a schedule?"

McCoy glanced at Jim and shook his head fondly, then began fumbling in his medkit, pulling out a capped hypospray.

"What's that?" Jim asked warily, eyeing the hypospray with distaste.

"Something I hoped I'd never have to use," McCoy sighed. "Of course, it figures it'd have to be on you."

“How much time do we have left?" Jim asked.

"About twenty minutes, but we still have to hurry. Now take it off already."

Jim promptly pulled up the hem of his shirt, grimacing as the scar over his chest tugged uncomfortably. He had the garment pulled halfway over his head before something suddenly struck him. And like all impetuous ideas, it struck hard. "Wait," he said, pausing.

"Jim, we don't have time for this-"

"No, listen," Jim said, his excitement mounting as he pulled his shirt back down. "You said I was in AF?"

McCoy squinted at him impatiently, "Atrial Fibrillation, yeah, why?"

"They said something about it. The terrorists, I mean." It was coming back now, the blurry mumbles in the background of his memory snapping briefly into white clarity. “Before they shocked me.”

“Well, of course. Your heartbeat was normal when I first scanned you,” McCoy said, nonplussed. “But the defibrillator’s shot now. Literally. So if you’re suggesting we shock you back to-”

“Look, the fail safe was only activated when the AF started, right? So we know they’re somehow linked. Well… what if there’s another way to fix it?” Jim persisted. “Another way to do this without having to stop my heart now?”

“What are you going on about?”

“We cheat the system.” Jim was unable to hold back his triumphant grin, looking from McCoy to Spock. “We trick the bomb.”

“Jim,” McCoy said, looking like he was at his wit’s end. “Damn it, man, make some sense here.”

“Come on, Bones, don’t you see? We can use compressions to throw off the AF, since that seems to be the only rhythm the fail safe can pick up on, right?”

“I see. The captain does raise a logical point,” Spock said suddenly, his head tilting slightly in consideration. “You are suggesting that we attempt to correct your cardiac rhythm by simulating an alternative pace through manual means in order to delay the fail safe."

“Exactly.” Jim nodded and looked around at McCoy expectantly.

The doctor looked pensive, his frown deepening. "You know, you'd have to be sedated for this, Jim. I'm not fully equipped for that kind of procedure down here."

"I can do it without."

"No, you damn well can't," McCoy retorted. "Not without decent pain relief that we don't have!"

"It's not a big deal, Bones, really." Jim pointed at himself. "Crazy high pain tolerance, remember?"

McCoy glowered at him, indicating just what he thought of Jim's pain tolerance. "You do know what you're actually asking us to do, right?"

"I do," Jim said adamantly, looking at the two of them with steady intent. Spock's gaze sharpened in disapproval when Jim met his eyes, but said nothing. Jim continued, "If you're worried that doing the compressions while I've still got a pulse will, I don't know, _damage_ my heart or something, you know there's no actual evidence out there to back it up."

"That's beside the point!" McCoy snapped, visibly seething. "I don't think you get just how bad this is going to be for you."

Jim blinked, taken aback. "What?"

McCoy’s glare sharpened adamantly. “You could be seriously injured, Jim. A cracked rib at the least, and several broken ribs wouldn’t be out of the question. The only reason they still teach the damn thing in school is that, somehow, it still works!”

Jim shrugged. “I’ve had broken ribs before.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“And I’m not joking. Look, I’ve dealt with pain all my life. I’ll be fine.”

McCoy shared a long, commiserating look with Spock that somehow pissed Jim off, and he narrowed his eyes irritably until they turned back to face him.

"If anything, this could increase my chances of surviving," Jim argued, trying to sound reasonable. "If we keep up the compressions to trick the device until the _Enterprise_ is back online, then stop my heart and remove the bomb, you'll be able to get the equipment you need to shock me back. Considering that my heart won't be stopped as long, I should make an easier comeback than if we went with the original plan."

“I think you’re forgetting that the very fact that you being able to _feel this_ could put your body under a lot of distress. The risks alone are-”

“I know that,” Jim cut in impatiently. "I'm not stupid, Bones."

"Then you also know that being conscious during this won't be an option." McCoy pushed, almost warningly.

"Well, that's more of an opinion, right?” Jim said vaguely.

McCoy looked at him incredulously, "You can't be serious, Jim."

Jim dropped his eyes briefly, then raised them again determinedly. "Could it work?"

"Why the hell would you want it to?!" McCoy gestured vehemently with his hands as he spoke, slashing at the air angrily. “It’s crazy, it’s-”

"You didn't answer my question, Bones."

McCoy made a strangled noise, his face flushing. “I can’t listen to this anymore." He turned around firmly, his back to Jim and Spock, fuming silently.

Jim squinted disbelievingly at his friend, then glanced at Spock for backup. His first officer unhelpfully avoided his gaze, and Jim returned his glare to McCoy’s back with renewed irritation.

"Bones, come on- don’t be like- would you just-” Jim swore fiercely under his breath, shaking his head. "Bones, answer me, damn it. Could this work, or not?"

"Theoretically speaking....yes," McCoy answered reluctantly, turning back around slowly and looking disgruntled at having to answer at all. "But it's a _bad_ idea, Jim.”

"So let's test the damn theory if it'll make you feel better!" Jim retorted impetuously. He climbed onto the table, stretching himself out on his back. McCoy frowned, realization spreading across his expression.

"You wouldn't..."

Jim ignored him, looking at Spock instead. "Here, give it a go," he said, waving at his chest. Spock squinted slightly, the faint crease between his eyes the only indication of his confusion.

Jim gestured again pointedly. "Come on, Spock, push. We have to see if the compressions will stop the countdown."

When Spock hesitated, Jim rolled his eyes. "You're not going to hurt me, if that's what you're worried about. I can take it."

"Jim, perhaps you are overestimating your own endurance," Spock said quietly, his expression indiscernible. Jim exhaled impatiently and reached over, grabbing Spock's hand by the wrist and bringing it over to his own chest. He pressed Spock's palm over his sternum, feeling his own heartbeat pounding beneath the light pressure, and watched as the Vulcan looked away.

"Come on," he urged quietly, until Spock reluctantly met his eyes again, a fleeting moment of torn indecision within them.

McCoy broke in angrily, "You can't ask him to do that, Jim. You leave him out of this!"

"He _is_ a part of this!" Jim retorted, glancing sharply at the doctor. McCoy subsided, though he remained visibly seething.

Jim turned back to Spock, tightening his grip on the Vulcan's wrist reassuringly. "This can work, Spock," he said steadily. "It's perfectly logical."

Spock, finally relenting, overlapped his hands, intertwining the fingers of his right hand with his left, and positioned himself over the center of Jim's chest. Jim nodded in approval, bracing himself for the impact....and Spock didn't move.

"Do it," Jim prompted. Spock blinked, uncertainty still evident in his otherwise stoic demeanor, and he made to shift his stance. Jim grabbed his hand instinctively, preventing him from withdrawing.

Spock's jaw set and he pulled his hand from Jim's sharply, and Jim sat up, staring at the Vulcan in bewilderment. There was a heavy note of disappointment in Spock's gaze before he finally turned away, striding several steps away from the table and stopping with his back to the others.

Jim waited a second before groaning in exasperation. "What was that about?" he demanded accusingly, swinging his legs off the table. Spock didn't answer, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly.

"Damn it, Spock, _say_ something!" Jim snapped, irritation sharpening his voice.

The Vulcan turned and finally raised his eyes to Jim's. "Would it matter if I objected?" he said quietly.

“What?” Jim was taken off guard momentarily by the unexpected response.

“Would it change the course of matters,” Spock said again, slower this time, “if I raised any objections.”

Jim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration flooding back in full force as his surprise faded. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for me to speak.”      

“Look, we don't have time for--"

“Affirmative,” Spock said at once, "and so I will speak plainly. I find your plan extremely disagreeable-”

“Spock--”

“I am not finished, Captain.” The emphasis on the title was clear. Jim reluctantly closed his mouth and glowered as Spock pushed on, “I do not wish to inflict pain on you by any means. However, as your friend, I will respect your wishes if you allow me one request.”

“And what’s that?” Jim asked suspiciously.

Spock took a deep breath, then said, “Captain, I believe my natural abilities as a Vulcan may be of service in this situation.”

"What?" Jim stared at him, confused, before realization sent him reeling. "You want to meld with me?"

"I believe it will at least partially alleviate the discomfort caused by-"

Jim raised his hands, halting Spock mid-reel, and frowned, his thoughts still staggering. "Wait....emotions and memories are transferred through mind-melds, right?"

"Indeed."

"And what about physical sensations? What about pain?"     

Spock had caught on to the intention behind the pointed questions. "It is an unavoidable byproduct of the meld, yes."

"Then no,” Jim said decidedly. “Out of the question.”

“Captain, I must object--”

“Do I need to make this an order, Commander?" Jim asked challengingly, crossing his arms.

Spock's eye twitched, a telltale sign of rising anger beneath his cool facade. He took a step forward, closer to Jim. "I do not understand the apparent disregard you have for your own life."

Jim closed the distance between them, placing himself impudently in Spock's personal space and lifting his chin defiantly. His eyes narrowed slightly, almost challengingly, as he responded, "And what I don't get is why this even matters to you."

When Spock merely stared at him, his own eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to suppress his anger, Jim smirked, and added callously, "Oh, that's right. You'd like to pretend that this is actually going to affect you."

"Jim..." McCoy objected, unable to stay quiet any longer.

Jim ignored him, eyes never leaving Spock's, daring him to protest. The sight of the Vulcan resolutely keeping his composure set Jim off more than he would care to admit, and he jabbed his finger at Spock's chest aggressively. "You can _choose_ not to feel, so why don't you?!"

"Not when it concerns you."

Jim stopped, caught off guard by the frank admission. Spock stared at him a moment longer before dropping his gaze, and McCoy took the opportunity to intervene. He pushed at Jim's shoulder just enough to break the two of them apart and gave his chest a hard shove. "What the-"

"Did you enjoy that?" McCoy demanded, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he converged on Jim.

"What?" Jim asked incredulously.

"You heard me."

"What are you-”

"All right. Maybe you like it harder." McCoy shoved him again with more force. Jim winced, rubbing at his sternum.

"Ow, Bones, what the hell!"

"It’s going to hurt worse than that. A lot worse. But I think you just might like that."

"What are you talking about?!” Jim yelled, frustrated beyond coherency.

McCoy scoffed. "I think you know. If you're into this sort of thing, you know there are other ways you can go about getting it."

Jim clenched his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. “Shut up. I’m not _into_ it—“

McCoy squinted, a suspiciously knowing glint in his eye, and Jim sighed angrily. He glanced quickly at Spock, feeling a flush of shame and embarrassment creeping up the sides of his neck before turning back to McCoy.

“Look, Bones, I’m not some kind of masochist or anything, alright?”

“I don’t know, Jim, I’m starting to think you’ve got a few screws—“

"Damn it, Bones, I told you! I don’t get _off_ on this crap!” He waved his arms in frustration.

“Bullshit."

It was the final straw. Jim turned his back resolutely, pausing for a lingering moment, then suddenly spun on his heel, punching the wall behind him hard in a surge of fury. His knuckles throbbed and pulsed with pain from the impact, but he welcomed its grounding presence with a weary familiarity.

When he turned back around, Jim found himself unable to look at either of his friends. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. “It’s not like that,” he murmured, at last, his anger simmering down to a dull ache.

“What aren’t you telling us, Jim?” McCoy demanded, crossing his arms. His voice was still stern, though it had softened slightly in concern.

Jim stared at the ground between his feet for a moment before responding, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me," McCoy challenged.

"We don't have time for this!" Jim argued.

McCoy sighed heavily. “Look, Jim. We’re not doing this until you give us the real reason. Now, the way I see it, you either enjoy pain a little too much, or—“

Jim looked up, giving McCoy a warning look.

“Or...you can’t live without it.”     

They were both looking at him, the two best friends he’d ever had, and he had never felt so vulnerable and exposed as he did now.

“The question is, why, Jim?” McCoy pressed carefully, when Jim didn’t respond, his voice less gruff than what Jim was accustomed to.

Jim looked strained. Hell, this was embarrassing. “Why does it matter?”

“Because we care about you, damn it!” McCoy growled.

Jim wasn’t sure who looked more surprised at the passionate outburst, Spock or himself. The Vulcan glanced at Jim, the extra seconds it took him to recover telling Jim more than he was sure Spock wanted him to know.

Jim finally relented. “It’s...safe,” he sighed reluctantly, though he wasn’t sure that was the proper description. There wasno way for him to explain how he felt; it was why he had never bothered, before now. “Pain, I mean. I-I can’t explain it, but... it’s just _safe_ , somehow.”

He paused, struggling with his words. Spock and McCoy watched him quietly, their anticipating silence making the task even more difficult.

Jim gave a short, nervous laugh at last, shaking his head. “This isn’t gonna make any sense, but, like I said, I’ve dealt with it my whole life. I don’t know what’s like to not feel _something_ ….especially pain. And I sure as hell don’t want to either, because...”

"You don't know anything different," McCoy finished quietly.

Jim looked up, surprised, and met his friend's steady gaze. He nodded slowly, the anxiety in his chest gradually loosening.

After a long moment, during which McCoy glanced askance at Spock and received a short nod in response, the doctor subsided, visibly straightening himself out. "All right." He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring in old irritation. " _All right_ ," he repeated. "Say, just _say_ that we go along with this inane plan. You have to promise me one thing, Jim. When this is all over, we’re going to talk about this. Properly.”

“Whatever you say, Bones,” Jim sighed, exasperated.

“That’s not going to cut it, kid,” McCoy answered sharply.

"All right,” Jim said, and frowned as the world tilted sideways for a brief moment. He squinted down at his feet and pinched the bridge of his nose as another wave of dizziness swept over him. “We will.”

McCoy looked at Spock, then back to Jim in concern. "Jim, what is it?"

Jim caught himself against the wall before he could fall, clenching his eyes shut. "Damn it, everything's spinning..."

"You need to lie down," McCoy said at once; Jim nodded, taking a step towards the operating table. That was as far as he got before his legs gave out and he was heading for the floor. Spock stepped forward swiftly and caught him around the waist before he completely collapsed, hooking an arm behind his knees and lifting him up bodily.

"Whoa-" Jim protested groggily, as the world lurched precariously around him.

McCoy was hurrying to the operating table. "Put him here," he ordered Spock, reaching for his tricorder and glancing at it briefly. "Hurry, there's only ten minutes on the clock."

Spock set Jim down carefully, frowning when the man let out a pained groan.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" McCoy asked Spock cautiously, suddenly worried. "Not to go overboard on him."

"Of course, Doctor," Spock answered, rolling up his sleeves briskly. "I possess more than adequate control over my own strength."

"Good. All right, we're going to need to put these on you," McCoy told Jim, rattling one of the wrist cuffs at the side of the table.

Jim eyed it skeptically, blinking away the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. "Is that really necessary?"

"Everyone's got their limits, kid."

The tricorder emitted a strange beep, cutting off any response Jim might have made. McCoy looked at the device distractedly, then did a double take, bringing it closer to his face and squinting at the screen in disbelief. "Wait a minute...this can't be right."

Spock looked over sharply, alerted by the note of alarm in McCoy's voice. "Doctor?"

"When I checked this damn thing a few seconds ago I could swear there were ten minutes left. It's gotta be a secondary fail safe, somehow."

"How much time do we have, Doctor?"

McCoy studied the screen carefully, lips moving silently as he calculated the new readings. His eyes widened as he reached his conclusion, the color receding swiftly from his face.

"Shit."

McCoy set down the tricorder, practically slamming it down with his haste, and began fumbling with the leather restraints. The Vulcan, not requiring further clarification at this point, moved quickly to the other side to assist him.

A moment later, McCoy glanced down swiftly at the tricorder and swore. "No time," he said tersely, abandoning his efforts and grabbing the device once more. "You'll have to straddle him."

After a brief consideration, Spock placed a hand firmly on the edge of the operating table and swung a leg over and across in one fluid motion, settling his weight over Jim's waist and securing Jim's arms to his sides with his knees. Jim grunted at the foreign pressure, struggling instinctively until Spock met his eyes steadily, reassuring in his collected silence.

"We're down to thirty....twenty-nine- shirt!" McCoy ordered, sparing a brief glance up from the timer.

Focused intently on his task, Spock grasped the front of Jim's collar and ripped his shirt open, the force of his movements causing Jim's back to jerk slightly off the table before thumping back down.

"Twenty-five...."

Spock flicked the torn pieces of fabric over Jim's sides, exposing his bare chest, and placed his hands firmly into position, leaning forward. He paused for the space of a breath, a heartbeat, steadying himself—

"Now!" McCoy shouted, the resounding command triggering Spock's next action.

Spock dropped down _hard_ for the first compression, Jim uttering a startled grunt as he absorbed the full brunt of the blow. When Spock pushed down again, the resulting huff of air held a hint of strain this time, Jim's eyes clenching shut as his head jerked back against the table. The tricorder's beeping altered slightly, faltering in its constancy as it picked up Spock's efforts. But still the timer continued, its merciless decline as brutally uncomplicated as any act of nature. The final moments...ten...nine...

McCoy stared down at his tricorder disbelievingly, counting, praying. "It's not working," he muttered bewilderedly, his fingers whitening around the device. "Why the hell isn't it working?"

The tricorder beeped suddenly with a loud, foreign sound. Jim's eyes snapped open, fixing unsteadily on Spock's face as his first officer pushed down again, his chest sinking painfully beneath the force of the impact. Red numbers flashed, five...

"I trust you," Jim gasped, searching for something in Spock's expression. Something, anything to hold on to-

...four....three...

"Stay with me, Jim," Spock responded firmly. Another forceful thrust, Jim's body jolting beneath him-

.....two..........one.


	3. Chapter 3

_McCoy stared down at his tricorder disbelievingly, counting, praying. "It's not working," he muttered bewilderedly, his fingers whitening around the device. "Why the hell isn't it working?"_

_The tricorder beeped suddenly with a loud, foreign sound. Jim's eyes snapped open, fixing unsteadily on Spock's face as his first officer pushed down again, his chest sinking painfully beneath the force of the impact. Red numbers flashed, five..._

_"I trust you," Jim gasped, searching for something in Spock's expression. Something, anything to hold on to-_

_...four....three..._

_"Stay with me, Jim," Spock responded firmly. Another forceful thrust, Jim's body jolting beneath him-_

_.....two..........one._

..

The timer froze.

In the deafening silence that followed, McCoy’s sudden exhale was harsh and ragged. Jim gasped in surprise, staring nonplussed at the ceiling as the knot of pure dread in his chest dissolved. Spock’s eyes closed briefly, the only indication of his own relief, and when he opened them again and resumed the compressions, he did so with even more efficiency than before.

There was a sharp jolt as Spock delivered the next compression, keeping his elbows locked and dropping down on Jim's chest hard with a practiced restraint. Jim grunted involuntarily at the weight of the impact, his mind blanking for a split second from the sheer force.

He gasped in a shaking breath of air as soon as his thoughts cleared, then winced through another compression as his head jerked back reflexively against the table. And though the sensation was more than discomforting, painful even, somewhere distantly in his mind, he wondered why it wasn't nearly as bad as he had thought it would be. He could feel the pain hovering at the edges of his consciousness, surging forward eagerly as if sensing his acknowledgment; it strained through the pulsing of blood in his ears, a nauseating sense of trepidation rising within him.

"How're you doing?" McCoy asked unexpectedly, his face drifting in the corner of Jim's vision.

Jim cut his eyes towards the doctor, squinting peevishly. "Fantastic," he grunted, grimacing at the coppery taste coating the inside of his mouth. Must've bitten his tongue at some point, though he couldn't remember it.

"What's it feel like?" McCoy persisted, a hint of genuine curiosity in his tone.

Jim eyed him for a moment, trying to gauge his own physical condition. He could feel his heart clenching in his chest, drawing tighter with every blow, but he wasn’t exactly keen on reflecting on the strangeness of the sensation. "....serious?" he wheezed, too strained to sound incredulous.

"I'm a doctor, Jim. Scientific inquiry's kind of an occupational hazard," McCoy answered dryly. "So?"

Jim had a mad urge to snort, but figured he’d probably pop a rib trying and gave an exasperated eye-flick instead. Then, after a moment, he answered, "It's.....weird. Like....you know....squishing a water balloon....with a brick......and there's all kinds....of bendy crap.....rubber bands and stuff.....holding the balloon together.....and I'm the balloon."

Above him, Spock frowned quizzically and tilted his head slightly, his mouth opening as if about to question him further on the technicalities of this water balloon, then closing again decisively.

"You got....something....to say?" Jim grunted grumpily, in no mood for critique.

"Not particularly," Spock responded evenly, then paused. "On second thought....your compa-"

"Shut....up."

"Yes, Captain," Spock said slowly, sounding even more puzzled. "But perhaps....you too should reconsider....your priorities...and cease to talk."

McCoy rolled his eyes sardonically at his side, shaking his head. "I'll have you know," he said, "that this is the most awkward thing I've ever had to witness."

"Try....being....the balloon," Jim gasped irritably, trying relentlessly to slot his words in between the compressions and emitting awkward hiccups when he misjudged the timing.

"Perhaps you ought....to try breathing,” Spock advised dryly. He gave another hard push, and another, this one even more discomforting, and then suddenly, like a truck or a tsunami, the real pain finally hit. Jim thought he might have been prepared for what was coming, but the reality of it was, he couldn't have been more wrong. With each new thrust to his chest came a fresh wave of pain, one that only intensified the longer it went on.

"Captain?" Spock's hesitant voice cut through his murky thoughts, the concern in his tone sharp and tangible.

Jim blinked and dragged his eyes to Spock's face with great effort. "I'm...okay," he said firmly, but was unable to keep his voice from wavering slightly. "Don't worry."

He could see Spock's eyes tightening in the moment of shared agony, eyebrows furrowing as he registered the affliction in Jim's unsteady gaze. Nevertheless, Jim felt a stir of pride when Spock relentlessly continued, pushing down with enough force to jostle his head, the back of his skull thumping down with every blow.

Jim clenched his eyes shut, riding out the waves of shattering pain radiating from his torso doggedly. He fervently hoped that Spock hadn't miscalculated and shattered all his ribs in his efforts; it certainly felt like it.

The darkness of his closed eyes only made it worse, and he forced them open, focusing on Spock again. His first officer caught his gaze, held it, and continued. And at that moment, Jim wasn't sure what he wanted more, for Spock to stop or to ignore his pain and keep going. _Suck it up_ , he told himself firmly. _If he stops, you all die._

Ignoring the pain was a simple enough decision to make in his mind, but his body disagreed vehemently. He wanted to cry, to yell, but he was trapped by his own prideful will. And Spock was watching him. Somehow that alone made everything hurt worse, knowing that Spock knew what he was doing to him, that Jim had asked this of him.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably through another compression, and he grimaced, suddenly finding the sensation nearly repulsive. Spock narrowed his eyes at him in slight concern, but Jim barely registered it as everything else took second place to another swiftly rising issue.

He couldn't breathe anymore for the crippling pain that gripped his mind as much as it did his body, couldn't so much as talk himself into trying. Every feeble attempt he made to inhale now took too long, and was therefore immediately crushed by a downward thrust. He widened his eyes desperately at Spock, barely managing a ragged grunt.

Thankfully, Spock seemed to come to the same conclusion fairly quickly, peering intently into Jim's face and making sure he had his full attention. "Jim, I will need you to breathe when I say. Do you understand?"

Jim tried to gasp a reply and found his lungs to be empty.  

"Do you understand?" the Vulcan repeated, a hint of urgency in his voice.

 _Yes, damn it,_ Jim glared helplessly.             

Spock began to count in time with his compressions, low and fast under his breath, "One...two...three...four...five...six....seven...breathe."

Jim sucked in a shaky breath in the half second of respite, ribs creaking painfully, and nearly lost all of it when Spock came down again without warning to start the next round.

"One...two…three...four...five...six....seven...breathe, Jim."

He managed a better breath this time, inhaling valiantly and grunting slightly when the inevitable compressions returned with unrelenting force, and with them Spock's steady voice.

"One...two..."

It became a grueling cycle, Spock counting and pausing in brief intervals to allow Jim to snatch a breath. It was painful, it was hard, his chest seemed to be getting tighter and tighter, but soon Jim managed to pick up the timing without the aid of verbal cues, his body automatically surging for air in the small window of opportunity.

He felt a stray drop of sweat trailing down the curve of his chest, felt the dampness of his heated skin against the coolness of Spock’s palms as he continued to press down. Beads of sweat were pooling in his clavicle, itching on his face, until he was certain he must be practically saturated with it. McCoy reached over after a moment, dabbing at his face and neck with one of their previously discarded shirts with a surprising gentleness.

".....thanks...." Jim murmured hoarsely, his eyes closing as the shirt brushed over his cheek.

"Hang on, kid," was McCoy's only reply, his hand lingering on Jim's forehead for a moment longer before he pulled away.

Spock pushed down again, and Jim clenched his teeth through it, the terrible pressure in his chest building and building and-

There was a small crack, and Jim's side suddenly flared with a white-hot pain. He grunted in shock, his vision flickering for a second. "Ouch...felt that one," he croaked, trying for a mild tone but most likely sounding as wretched as he felt.

McCoy grabbed for his tricorder, scanning the screen feverishly. "Just a fracture," he concluded tersely, glancing back at Jim in concern before his expression settled resolutely. "Nothing we can't patch up afterwards."

The next compression caught the cracked rib at just the wrong angle, and Jim fought down a wave of nausea at the resulting agony.

"Shit," he groaned, arching reflexively against the table, only to be shoved back down by the Vulcan's steady movements.

"My apologies," Spock muttered from above Jim, a small trace of guilt coloring his tone and creasing his brows.

Jim tried to nod, to blink, to do anything to acknowledge the apology, but his side throbbed again with a pulsing fire, and his breath hitched painfully in the back of his throat.

Spock had an odd contemplative look on his face as he pushed down again. "Jim, my offer still stands."

McCoy looked up with interest at that, glancing between them curiously.

Somewhere through the white jagged waves of pain, Jim muddled out his meaning. "No," he gasped, with as much vehemence as he could muster. "No melding."

"Jim-"

“Don’t want….you…..feeling this….”

“If it would aid-”

"Said.... _no_."

"It is of no consequence to me," Spock said forcefully, punctuating his words with a downward thrust.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the pain before looking back up at Spock.

"It is….to me."

Spock's lips compressed in a thin line, and the next push felt deliberately harder, causing Jim to squint in pain once again as his head jolted sharply against the table.

“You….did that….on purpose,” Jim grunted, glaring up at Spock accusingly.

"It is...what you want...is it not?" Spock challenged, watching intently as Jim`s face flushed in anger.

McCoy looked at Spock incredulously, and the Vulcan readily ignored him. “Breathe,” he instructed Jim tersely, more firmly than before.

Jim took a ragged breath, his strength clearly flagging.

"I do not believe….you would be so….obstinate….as to refuse-" Spock continued, his words punctuated by the force of his compressions.

"Are you two really doing this right now?" McCoy demanded, unable to remain quiet for any longer. "With this-" he gestured wildly between them, "-happening?"

Jim tried his best to glower at Spock. “Then...you don’t….” he wheezed, sacrificing previous air in the process, “....know me….like I thought you did.”

There was a shaken pause when he finished, enough time for a stab of guilt to slice through the haze of pain. He didn't miss the hurt that flashed unvoiced in Spock's eyes, and it was a sight he knew he wouldn't forget. What he had said was the farthest thing away from the truth, but the words were out, and he didn't have the energy to take it back.

"You are...unfair in your….assumption, Captain." Spock said finally, his expression sliding back into the mask of cool professionalism he had worn on their first meeting. “Breathe,” he told him again.

Jim gasped feebly, his ravaged muscles straining to take in the air he needed. It was taking too long, Spock had to start again any second now, but he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t do it-

“Damn it all,” McCoy burst out, and then he was grabbing Jim’s face, tilting it up and pressing a palm to his forehead. A moment later, he felt fingers on each side of his nose, pinching it shut. Before Jim could register what was happening, McCoy's mouth was pressed against his and air, sweet oxygen filled his lungs. It was only one breath, shorter than he wanted but enough for what he needed, and before McCoy had even finished, Spock was pushing down again with full force.

But Jim still had to be sure, and he struggled to carry out his next words through numb lips. "That's...an order...Commander."

Spock stared down at him, his expression frozen in disapproval, before turning his eyes away. Then, a moment later, he looked back. "Yes, Captain." He pushed down again as he spoke. The downward push landed at an unfortunate angle, causing his hands to skim across the sheen of sweat glistening over Jim's torso and glancing waywardly to the left.

There was a split second of chilling dread. McCoy inhaled sharply at his side, and Jim, in his shock, seemed to have forgotten how to breathe at all.

Then the moment passed, the timer did not continue, and Spock recovered his senses rapidly, nodding sharply at the doctor to swab the remaining sweat from Jim’s chest as he leaned back and partly lifted his hands. McCoy swiped the wadded-up shirt over the area quickly in the brief interval Spock allowed for him, careful to remove every trace of moisture, and pulled back swiftly as Spock immediately resumed his compressions.

A sudden rapid beeping from the tricorder caused McCoy to jerk in surprise. He dug it out from his pocket, cursing under his breath when he saw the readings on the screen. “Damn it, Jim, you need to calm down.” He patted Jim’s forehead distractedly with the dim thought of physically lowering his spiking blood pressure. Spock gazed down at Jim, his anger fading swiftly to concern as the doctor continued to soothe the younger man. “Calm down. It’s all right. Think about….think about something nice. I know it hurts, but try.”

Jim clung on to the sound of McCoy's voice, gripping desperately to his consciousness as it threatened to slip away. It was like running uphill and falling all at once, and everywhere the pain pulled him down.

“Hold on, Jim.”

He tried to think of something pleasant, something soothing. His lack of happy childhood memories was frustrating.

“Jim, you need to relax,” McCoy was saying, raising his voice over the insistent beeping of his tricorder.

 _I'm trying, damn it._ He met Spock's eyes once more, straining to find some semblance of calm. There was a certain serenity in the Vulcan's gaze, even in moments like this, that Jim desperately wished he could emulate. Strange, how just looking at Spock now could relax him like this, when their first meeting had been so utterly disastrous.

_"I don't believe in no-win scenarios." He tilted his chin confidently towards the panel, foolish in his naivety. So sure of himself, in his fresh-pressed cadet red on that sunny afternoon._

_The Vulcan was speaking again, words clipped and precise. "Then, not only did you violate the rules, you also failed to understand the principle lesson." He really hated the way the guy talked, like a freaking robot._

_Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he turned his head to meet the frank stare of the Vulcan- Spock, whatever his name was. "Please, enlighten me."_

_Spock gazed back at him calmly, a ghost of a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth, and it was that cool smirk accompanied by his next words that tipped Jim over the edge into full dislike for the man. "You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk. A captain cannot cheat death."_

A powerful jolt shocked him to reality for a blinding moment, his eyes blinking as he tried to make sense of his spinning surroundings. He felt Spock's hands pressing hard against his chest, literally tethering him to life, and something about the situation was amusing, but he couldn't think straight....

_"You feel nothing! It must not even compute for you! You never loved her!"_

_An inhuman bellow of rage, fingers around his throat, numbing pain that wasn't half of the agony he could see in Spock's eyes...._

He still felt guilty about that, wondering if he had ever really apologized for saying those things, even if it had been necessary.

_Crouching in the cargo bay of the Romulan ship, Spock's presence at his back._

_"I'll cover you," he whispered, eyes fixed straight ahead. The phaser hummed in his hands, his limbs vibrating with the thrill of adrenaline._

_"Are you certain?"_

_He nodded, surprised at his own response. But situations changed all the time, and now he found that he didn't hate the Vulcan as much as he thought he used to at all. "Yeah, I got you."_

He felt another forceful push on his chest, this one seeming more distant than the first....and before he knew it, he was falling again.

_Tears, hotter than the radiation racing through his veins, pulsed at the back of his eyes. His throat constricted with the added effort of restraining a terrified sob. He wasn't ready, he was too young._

_Nothing had prepared him for this, this terrible waiting before the end. "I'm scared, Spock," he gasped, the confession triggering the wells of emotion he had been suppressing. "Help me not be."_

_Spock shakily lowered his eyes and Jim felt the loss keenly. "How do you choose not to feel?" he murmured bitterly, envying Spock the very thing he begrudged him for. His heart was pounding too slowly in his chest, too weakly. The end was coming soon._

_Spock was shaking his head, a helpless motion that looked strange on the Vulcan. "I do not know." His voice throbbed with something poignant, an edged grief that seemed to shock himself as much as it did Jim. "Right now, I am failing."_

_Jim raised his eyes to Spock's trembling face. In another moment, another time, he would have been disbelieving. Right now, however, he felt only awe. How many times had he accused the Vulcan of not feeling, of not caring, how many times had he thought less of him for being so? He had been so wrong, so stupid, to not see how much, how deeply that Spock did feel._

_"I want you to know," he breathed, determined to say this, to let Spock know for certain, "why I couldn't let you die. Why I went back for you."_

_Spock met his eyes and Jim knew that he understood, that he had finally grasped the notion, and the satisfaction of knowing was almost worth the pain. "Because you are my friend."_

The next jolt was hard enough to spin Jim out of his daze, leaving him feeling like Spock had finally managed to punch through his spine. He could feel himself fading, unraveling away from his body on waves of blackness.

Something lurked beyond the edges of his dissipating vision, something so close and so far beyond that he could reach it if he just….let go….and maybe that was what he needed to do.

Jim's face was strained and paling, an unnatural shade compared to his usually vibrant complexion. Intermittent tremors racked his frame, his bare chest again gleaming with cold sweat that McCoy reached out intermittently to wipe away. His gaze wavered slightly, eyes dimming as his eyelids began to slide down.

"Jim," Spock said sharply, hoping to snap the man back into awareness. Jim murmured something incoherently, his eyes already half-closed.

"...help....not be...."

"That's right," McCoy said encouragingly, patting Jim's cheek. "That's right, just keep talking." He leaned over and gave Jim another breath, frowning anxiously when the younger man remained silent.

Spock swallowed hard, his frustration and worry mounting rapidly. "Jim, you must come back...." he tried again.

“Come on kid,” McCoy tapped the side of Jim’s face insistently. “You don’t get to do this, you hear me? Jim!”

Jim's eyes closed, his face falling slack with a terrible finality that sat heavy in Spock's chest. “Doctor, what is happening?” he asked, unable to fend off a wave of anxiety from surging in his voice.

McCoy leaned forward and caught his gaze, saying quietly, "His body can only endure this pain for so long, if we don't..." He trailed off helplessly, shaking his head.

Spock continued, struggling to keep the teeming emotions at the edge of his mind at bay. If he relented, they would swallow him, consume him until he lost himself. Already there was a haze of throbbing panic dulling his thoughts, blunting logic and reason until all that remained was humanity.

“No!” he heard himself say, in a voice that did not sound quite like his own.

The next downward push was abrupt, with more strength than he had previously used.

McCoy looked over at him sharply, noticing the sudden change. “What are you doing?!”

Spock continued the compressions at the harder pace, some irrational instinct at the back of his mind urging him onwards. When he felt another rib crack beneath his palm, he set his jaw determinedly and kept going.

“Damn it, Spock," McCoy burst out, when he received no reply. "Are you _trying_ to hurt him?!"

“He needs this, Doctor," Spock responded tensely, reluctant to expend more energy on a more thorough explanation.

McCoy looked between Spock and Jim, eyes widening slightly when he realized the Vulcan's intent. He looked torn for a moment, clearly debating between his own gut instincts and his clinical sensibilities, then nodded reluctantly and didn't question Spock any further.

“Open your eyes, Jim," Spock murmured, silently willing the man beneath him to move, to stir, to live.

Jim's head bounced lifelessly against the table with the force of Spock's blows, a convulsive shudder trembling through his entire body in a jolting wave, and McCoy reached out and steadied him, cradling Jim's head between his palms. "Don't give up on us, kid," he said softly, his voice rough and threatening to unwind. "You can do this."

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Spock slammed his fist down against Jim's chest forcefully. " _Now,_ Captain."

With a choking gasp, Jim’s eyes flickered open, startled, and eventually searched for and found Spock’s gaze once more. McCoy let out a breathless laugh that was almost a sob of relief, shoulders slumping as the tension in his body eased. And despite himself, in that brief moment of victory, Spock felt a small smile tug at his own lips.

Jim blinked at him slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching weakly in response. "...hey..."

Spock suppressed the maddening urge to berate him, his smile fading rapidly. "This is hardly.....amusing," he informed Jim frostily, trading his still lingering panic for irritation.

"You....smiled first," Jim protested, invigorated by his indignation.

"That is irrelevant-"

"You _idiot_ ," McCoy burst in fervently, having finally found his voice. "Don't you ever do that to me again, you hear?!"

Jim gave a tentative smile, almost apologetically, as he gasped, "Love...you too...Bones."

"I swear, Jim, you’ll be the death of me one d-"

Suddenly, Jim's body spasmed beneath Spock, his back lifting slightly off the table. The half-smile melted instantly from his face, replaced by a strained grimace.

McCoy moved instantly, laying a hand placatingly on the side of Jim's face. "What is it?"

Jim shook his head slightly, his eyes clenched shut. He struggled for air, gasping fruitlessly, and McCoy bent over obligingly to give him a breath.

"Jim, tell me what's wrong," McCoy asked instantly, when he pulled back again.

"....nothing-" Jim nearly choked as his body shuddered in another wave of pain.

McCoy worried his bottom lip for a moment, and glanced at his tricorder for reassurance, his expression mingled with a myriad of emotions. Then, he bent closer to Jim, his voice lowered to just above a whisper, but Spock heard every single word.

"You're the most stubborn idiot I know, kid. But you're also the strongest man I know. I ever tell you that?"

Jim struggled to open his eyes, his gaze, wavering as he tried to focus on McCoy's face. He opened his mouth uncertainly, gasping as Spock pushed down again. McCoy leaned in once more, saying fiercely, "Do you hear what I'm saying, Jim? There's no shame in whatever you're feeling right now. None at all, you hear?"

Jim stared up at him helplessly, and in that moment, something in him shattered and broke. There was a brief pause as his eyes slowly filled and glistened with moisture, and as Spock and McCoy watched, one lone tear spilled over, trailing down the side of Jim's face and past his ear. Jim blinked furiously, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. McCoy, sensing his embarrassment, placed a comforting hand over his forehead, his thumb brushing across the corner of Jim’s eye and wiping away the tear subtly. “It’s all right, kid.”

Jim's lip trembled slightly. "M'sorry...I asked you….to do this," he rasped hoarsely, his guilt evident in his eyes as he looked from McCoy to Spock.

"Coerced us, more like," McCoy said gruffly, a small rueful smile tugging at his lips, and Jim tried to respond with a weak smile of his own. McCoy patted his head again reassuringly, letting the weight of his palm rest against Jim’s forehead. Jim tried to speak again, his voice cracking and dying in his throat before he could muster a word, but McCoy nodded in understanding.

"I know, Jim. We know."

Jim relaxed visibly for a moment as he registered McCoy's words, then suddenly inhaled sharply as the next merciless bout of pain spasmed through his body.

“Are you certain....you can do nothing to.....negate the pain, Doctor?” Spock asked quietly, suddenly more conscious of the force behind every thrust he delivered to Jim’s chest.

McCoy shook his head regretfully. "Nothing that won’t do more than take the edge off. And at this point, we need him awake until we stop his heart. The longer he is out, the higher the chance that we don't get him back."

Spock nodded, feeling a cold slide of resolution settle heavily in his chest. “Doctor, we must switch positions.”

McCoy looked up sharply at his words. “What do you mean, switch positions?” he demanded, a burst of anxiety instantly triggered by the tightness of Spock’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

"Now," Spock said urgently, his tone leaving no room for argument. McCoy cursed and scrambled forward, pressing his hands to Jim’s chest as Spock carefully pulled away, assuming the same position the Vulcan had just vacated. Jim grunted in slight surprise as McCoy pushed down for the first compression, eyes flicking up confusedly at the doctor at the sudden change.

After a few seconds, McCoy glanced up curiously to see Spock standing quietly by Jim’s head, one hand placed almost absently on the side of his face to stabilize the jolting motions caused by McCoy’s compressions. His eyes were closed, eyebrows slanting down sharply in a frown of concentration.

“You going to tell me what the hell is going on?” McCoy demanded, huffing with the effort of his compressions.

Spock readily ignored him, a small muscle working in his jaw, jumping erratically as the Vulcan seemed to focus on something distant. No, the doctor corrected himself. It was something much closer. And suddenly, McCoy knew all too well what was happening.

“You better not be doing what I think you are,” McCoy said warningly, with growing suspicion.

“Quiet, Doctor.”

There was a sudden rattling sound as Jim struggled to draw in air, and Spock moved swiftly to aid him. Using his free hand, he tilted Jim's head back carefully and pinched his nose, pressing his mouth against his captain's to deliver a full breath. He could feel Jim's body relaxing involuntarily beneath him at the welcome influx of air, and despite his awareness of the necessity, there was still a small part of him that dimly registered the strangeness of the entire situation.

When Spock pulled away, Jim squinted up at him, gasping confusedly, "What are you-” Realization dawned on him quickly, however, as he became aware of Spock’s fingertips searching out their positions along his face. "Spock…. _don't_."

"Please understand why I must do this, Jim."

“....why…?”

Spock looked at him intently, a strange lump rising unbidden in his throat. "Because you are my friend now, and- you always shall be." His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. Jim's eyes softened slightly at the words before hardening again in determination, his mouth opening to-

“Breathe,” McCoy grunted, pushing down again.

Ignoring the muffled protests beneath him, Spock covered Jim's mouth with his own once more and breathed out.

"You are defying.....a direct...order, Commander," Jim rasped, when Spock finally withdrew.

Spock met his accusing gaze steadily, his own expression strangely exposed. "It is what you would have done."

Jim fell silent, staring at Spock with something not quite detectable in his eyes, before closing them resignedly at last.

Spock turned his thoughts inward and began to focus, allowing his barriers to thin and dissipate as he murmured, "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts."

McCoy watched helplessly as they both went stone still, Spock’s brow furrowing in concentration as his body relaxed.

Suddenly, Spock faltered, his free hand rising unconsciously to grip at his chest, fingers pulling at the fabric of his shirt. Beneath his other hand, Jim’s face twitched, the two of them bound by whatever was happening through their connection.

"What is it?" McCoy demanded instantly, feeling grossly left out of the meldfest. “Spock!” The last thing he needed now was Spock collapsing on him. McCoy's arms moved down automatically in another jolt, and the tightening of Spock's hand over the center of his chest confirmed his niggling suspicions. "Can you _feel_ that?"

When Spock didn’t respond, still caught in the fog of the meld, McCoy raised his voice in frustration. “Spock, damn it, answer me!”

"A...result....of...the meld, Doctor," Spock replied raggedly, the words slow to come. "As I said …..before, it is of no…..consequence."

Suddenly, a burst of static followed by a loud familiar beeping reached the doctor’s ears. “Spock, get my communicator,” McCoy said tightly. When he heard no response, he glanced up. Spock didn’t appear to have heard, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. “Commander!” McCoy ordered, and the Vulcan twitched, eyes flickering open confusedly.

“My communicator.” McCoy jerked his head down at his belt. Spock nodded, his eyes still glazed over with the remnants of the meld, and reached out with his empty hand, unhooking the communicator and placing it on the table next to Jim so that McCoy could speak down into it.

McCoy cleared his throat. " _Enterprise_! This is McCoy, do you copy?"

"Copy that, Doctor," Sulu's calm voice crackled back. “We’re reading you loud and clear.”

"Well, thank God," McCoy muttered in response. He went on to relay the situation, keeping a wary eye on the other two officers as he continued his compressions.

Sulu said something, then, something that made his ire rise instantly. “What?!” McCoy all but yelled, wincing guiltily as Spock frowned and flinched slightly.

“P-Prepare for transport, sir?” Sulu said again, more uncertainly this time. “If the captain needs medical attention, we should-”

“Are you insane?" McCoy barked into the communicator irately, "This is a delicate situation we've got down here, we can’t just go around displacing his molecules all over the place! Now you listen very carefully, Mr. Sulu. I’m gonna need a cardiostimulator and AED down here _stat_ \- send Chapel, she’ll know what I need-”

“Nurse Chapel is mid-surgery, sir,” Sulu interrupted, almost apologetically. “Engineering mishap.”

“Damn wrench-swingers,” McCoy grumbled. “Never mind, then, have Scotty beam the equipment down, you hear?” He ended the call before Sulu could respond and cursed fantastically.

Presently, the familiar whirring sound of transport hummed around the room, and the equipment spun into existence beside the table. McCoy looked urgently at Spock, still lost in his trance. "Spock."

The Vulcan responded faster this time, his frown deepening slightly before he stirred and looked at McCoy.

“You need to take over,” McCoy said, glancing meaningfully at the equipment on the floor.

Spock nodded jerkily, peeling his fingertips almost reluctantly from Jim's face and moving to the doctor's side. McCoy gave him another apprehensive look before swinging his leg back over Jim to crouch at his side, reaching down for the portable defibrillator. Spock climbed over Jim again, picking up the compressions where the doctor had left off without missing a beat.

McCoy was now fumbling with the portable defibrillator, prying the case open and swiftly uncoiling the mess of pads and wires.

Spock noticed what he was doing and frowned in consternation. “Doctor, the captain’s heart is not yet-”

“I _know_ that,” McCoy snapped, sticking the defibrillator pads to Jim’s torso around Spock’s hands, one to his right pectoral and the other on his left side. “But we’ll have to be ready for when it is.” He gave the final pad another firm press and withdrew, picking up the cardiostimulator and fiddling with its controls. “Five minutes to charge.”

Spock watched these proceedings curiously from above him, unable to resist from inquiring, “Is this not remarkably similar to the defibrillator you denounced so thoroughly previously?”

McCoy grunted. “So I’m a little old-fashioned. Bite me.”

The doctor fumbled in his medkit, withdrawing a loaded hypospray and eyeing it grimly. “All right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Spock. He looked down at Jim, his expression softening. “This is it, Jim. You ready?”

Jim grunted in affirmation, his face lined in pain and exhaustion. McCoy nodded, took a deep breath, and looked at Spock. “Let’s do this.”

Jim flinched reflexively as the hypospray plunged into the side of his neck, his face flexing in discomfort as the drug spread through his system. Spock watched attentively as the muscles in Jim’s face slowly grew slack, his pupils dilating erratically.

The sounds from the tricorder immediately altered, the beeping slowing as Jim’s heartbeat gradually flickered and dimmed. McCoy held his breath, glancing at the device tensely as his fingers tapped with nervous energy against his medkit. This went against everything he knew, everything he was- he was supposed to be _saving_ Jim, damn it, not watching him die _right in front of him._

It wasn’t long before the final puttering beeps faded, leaving only the steady beats of Spock’s compressions beeping from the tricorder. McCoy exhaled, saying, "All right, stop.”

Spock paused, pulling his hands slowly from Jim’s chest as the drone of his captain's flatlining heart filled the room. Spock stared uncertainly at Jim's still form, his own heart pounding unsteadily in his chest as he looked into open, lifeless eyes. This scene was all too familiar, all too wrenching, and he felt an old strand of panic resurfacing from deep within himself. He closed his own eyes, taking in a tremulous breath, and when he opened them, he was once again in control of himself.

McCoy was busily unpacking the contents of his medkit, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves and picking up a standard-issue scalpel. "Should be a dermal regenerator in there somewhere," he said, waving a hand vaguely at the remaining equipment left in the corner by the terrorists. "Since they used one on Jim and all.”

Spock immediately dismounted from the table and was at McCoy's side again in a few moments, holding the regenerator at the ready.

“This is gonna be a real fast in-and-out operation, you got it?" McCoy asked. When Spock nodded his affirmation, McCoy primed his scalpel, shifting his grip on the handle anxiously. “Here goes.”

A small curl of white smoke, barely visible, accompanied the first cut, causing a thin trickle of blood to drip down the curve of Jim's ribs before the blade could cauterize the wound. McCoy wiped it away distractedly with a gloved hand, and after another careful cut, he cast aside the scalpel, sliding his fingers slowly in the incision with a grimace.

He gripped the edge of the disk between his fingertips, giving it an experimental tug. The thing looked dead, its flickering interfaces black and lifeless, and after a quick glance at his tricorder to confirm that the bomb had been deactivated, McCoy pulled the disk out triumphantly. A small flow of blood seeped over the edges of the incision, but McCoy stemmed it quickly with his palm, pressing hard against the wound.

Spock moved forward with the dermal regenerator, and McCoy left the sealing of the wound to him, pulling away to hastily dispose of his bloodstained gloves. "Two minutes," he called over the humming of the regenerator, noting the time left on the cardiostimulator.

"That is two minutes of negative blood flow to the captain's brain," Spock pointed out tersely, pulling the regenerator away from Jim’s now healed chest. “The risk of permanent nerve damage is at sixty-three percent.”

McCoy jerked his head at the table without hesitation. "What are you waiting for, then?"

Spock gave an acute nod, putting the regenerator down and pulling himself onto the table and over Jim, increasing the speed and force of his compressions slightly this time around. Jim’s body lolled lifelessly beneath him, his still face unflinching beneath the force of the compressions, and Spock bit the inside of his cheek to quell the rising tide of fear and anxiety at the sight.

The next two minutes passed faster than either of them expected, and soon, the cardiostimulator emitted a low preemptive beep. McCoy seized the device instantly, moving to Spock’s side. “It’s time.”

Spock eyed the doctor warily without ceasing his compressions. “I am ready.”

“We’ll go in three….” McCoy checked the defibrillator one last time, the device humming quietly by his legs. “Two….” He lifted the cardiostimulator, hovering it above Jim’s chest. “ _One_.”

Spock gave one final compression and effortlessly slid off the table, pulling himself clear of Jim as McCoy pressed the cardiostimulator to the center of Jim's chest. The two of them watched as Jim's body jolted sharply, arching upwards before falling back with a harsh thud, his features slack.

McCoy waited a second, keeping a watchful eye on the defibrillator screen. A moment later, a single beep pierced the silence, and he swallowed a triumphant shout. Giving the pads plastered to Jim’s chest another once-over, he confirmed the irregular, but present heart rate and pressed the button on the defibrillator, delivering the first charge.

Jim shook again, the tremor more restrained this time, limbs twitching slightly from the current.

McCoy waited a second anxiously, cursed at the stubbornly faltering pulse, and gave a second charge.

Spock remained stock still across from him, eyes locked on Jim’s face as if trying to will the man to return to them. Well, it wasn’t as if McCoy wasn’t willing it, too.

“Come on,” McCoy muttered, feeling the itch of a drop of sweat trailing slowly past his temple. “Come _on_.” He’d dragged Jim’s ass out of more fires than he could count, and he’d be damned if he was going to lose him now to something so _mundane_ as heart failure.

He hit the button a third time, holding his breath.

Jim’s chest swelled in a sudden, shuddering gasp, eyelids flickering open. His hands twitched at his sides, limbs stirring as his brain reasserted control over his body. Spock made a muffled sound of surprise that McCoy was positive he would deny later. As it was, he nearly went into conniptions himself at the sight of Jim’s revival.

“ _Jim!_ ” He nearly bashed heads with Spock trying to bend over Jim at the same time, fumbling for his tricorder. “Thank _God_ -”

Jim’s eyes were wide open now, flicking dazedly between Spock and McCoy. His face gleamed with a sheen of sweat as his expression suddenly contorted into a grimace. “Unghhhh,” he groaned. “I’m gonna…”

McCoy leaned in uncertainly. “What? What was that?”

“Gonna throw up….”

McCoy swore, reaching out and rolling him over onto his side. Jim tightened beneath him in a wheezing heave, legs jerking as his empty stomach contracted. He retched abruptly over the side of the table, bringing up nothing but a thin stream of bile. Through the following series of painful coughing and gagging, McCoy kept a steady hand against Jim’s back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. “That’s it, kid. Just let it all out.” He glanced across at Spock, jerking his chin meaningfully. Spock raised his eyes from Jim’s groaning form and nodded, reaching for his own communicator.

“You’re gonna be okay, Jim,” McCoy said, allowing himself to believe it for the first time since this whole mess started. “You’re okay.”

“Ughh….the hell I am…”

“Don’t be such an infant,” McCoy responded automatically, a reluctant smile twitching at his lips.

“Spock to _Enterprise_ ,” Spock said quietly, and McCoy had the presence of mind to grab for his equipment before the Vulcan gave the next command.

“Energize.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Jim let loose a heavy sigh- the fifth since the start of McCoy's shift- and groaned listlessly until the doctor turned around, scowling irritably.

"Jim, for the love of-”

"I'm _bored_ , Bones!" Jim kicked out in frustration, pulling his sheets out from under the end of the mattress in the process.

McCoy stifled a peeved retort and silently moved to tuck the sheets back in, ignoring Jim’s angry stare. “Such an infant," he muttered under his breath, grouchily glancing at Jim's monitors for the sake of alleviating the tedium.

The readings were fine, as they had been for a while now. He knew Jim recovered quickly, in fact, he could personally testify to every ridiculous accident in the past five years that Jim had managed to bounce back from what would have downed a regular man for a week in less than three days.

This recent incident was no different. Jim was technically ready to be discharged; his ribs had healed nicely in the past two days, his heart and brain showed no abnormalities or any lasting damage from the trauma they had received. However, now and then, there were times when he would fall asleep and the monitors would go haywire, and McCoy would hover anxiously at his bedside until the readings settled down, but Jim never showed any signs of distress after waking and everything was practically good as new.

That didn't stop McCoy from worrying. He watched Jim's heart monitors obsessively, he practically slept in the next bed when off duty, and he ignored all of Chapel's attempts to coax him out of the medbay. With the recent stress Jim's heart had been under, the thought of him possibly slipping back into Atrial Fibrillation the second McCoy stepped away was enough to keep the doctor up even when exhaustion weighed down his very bones.

"I'm dying here, man, you've gotta let me do _something_ ," Jim pleaded **.** "At least let me do my work. I know there's got to be a crapload of paperwork after that planetside fiasco-"

“Let Spock take care of it.”

Jim sulked for all of three seconds, plucking absently at his wristband. “Tell you what, I’ll behave myself if you at least let me have my PADD.”

McCoy squinted at him suspiciously, not buying the puppy-eyed act for one second. “Oh yeah?”

Jim smiled winningly, widening his eyes for appeal. “Yeah. No complaining, no talking, zip.”

The thought was tempting. Too tempting. The kid had always known him too damn well for his own good. McCoy scowled aggrievedly. “I give you your PADD, you behave _and_ I keep you another day.”

Jim’s eye twitched, but his smile stayed unwaveringly. “Twelve hours.”

 _“A day_ , Jim. Going once.” McCoy crossed his arms, smirking slightly.

“Aw, come on-”

“Going twice.”

“Damn it, all right!” Jim threw up his hands in exasperation. “Grumpy old coot,” he muttered under his breath when McCoy triumphantly turned away to fetch the PADD.

“I heard that.” McCoy swatted him with the datapad before handing it over, watching disapprovingly as Jim eagerly began pulling up his neglected documents.

The medbay doors whooshed open suddenly, and they both looked up to see Spock stride in, arms full of ledgers and more PADDS. “Captain, I brought the paperwork you requested-” he stopped at McCoy’s suddenly furious stare and graced Jim with a wry eyebrow. “I take it you have not informed the doctor of your intention to resume your duties.”

There was a small pause, barely half a second of hesitation during which Jim stared at Spock with an unreadable expression, before he spoke, though there was no nuance in his tone suggesting that anything was out of the ordinary. “I was hoping to break it to him gently-” he began, then nearly yelped as McCoy suddenly jabbed him viciously with his hourly vitamin supplement.

Spock carefully set the documents down on an empty bed and turned back to them, taking in the scene of domestic dispute with interest. “The crew expressed their concern for your well-being, Captain. I assured them of your full recovery.”

“Hear that?” Jim growled, rubbing his neck with a wounded expression. “ _Full_ recovery, Bones. Even Spock can see that!”

“Pardon?” Spock said mildly.

McCoy ignored him. “I’m sorry, who here is the certified doctor? You’re fine when I say you are, and right now, you aren’t.”

Jim fell silent, moodily tapping at his datapad. Satisfied, McCoy watched him a moment before saying, “And besides. You owe me a conversation.”

Jim looked up, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

“We promised we’d talk once it was over, remember?” McCoy said quietly.

Something shut down behind Jim’s gaze, a guarded expression sliding over his face, and the momentary flicker of his eyes towards Spock would have gone unnoticed if McCoy hadn’t been watching as closely as he was. Before the doctor could puzzle over the motion, however, Jim was already looking back down at the PADD without so much as a word

McCoy glanced frustratedly at Spock, who merely looked back with a slightly discomforted expression mirroring Jim’s, and the doctor raked his hand through his hair distractedly. “Look, you gotta talk to me, Jim. Say something.”

Jim turned the screen of his datapad towards McCoy and the doctor saw that it was opened to a blank canvas, the words: _Not talking, remember? I’m behaving_ scrawled onto the white surface. McCoy stared at it, then up at Jim, and the kid had the flaming audacity to cock an eyebrow at him.

McCoy took a deep breath. Then another. When the urge to strangle Jim had subsided to a low buzz, he spoke again. “All right. We’ll talk about it later, then, hmm?” He was proud of how steady his voice was, afterwards.

Jim raised one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, and went back to poking at the PADD silently.

McCoy watched him go at it for a couple of minutes, then glanced at Spock. The Vulcan was gazing at Jim, a strange look on his face as if wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. McCoy took all of this in, then nodded decisively to himself and cleared his throat.

“I’ve decided to discharge you today, Jim."

Jim looked up at that in surprise, his expression brightening considerably. “Really? But you said—”

McCoy stopped him with an irritated glance. “I've got some conditions, of course.” He cleared his throat again pointedly, making sure he had Jim's full attention. “One, you report back to me tomorrow for a checkup.”

Jim looked physically pained at the thought, but nodded reluctantly.

“Two, you’re under Spock's observation for the first twenty-four hours after your release.”

“ _What?_!” Jim demanded, aghast. Spock raised his eyebrows slightly, the only indication of his own surprise, but said nothing in protest.

"A twenty-four-hour period," McCoy repeated firmly. He turned and picked up his tricorder, fiddling with the settings. "During which Spock will monitor your vitals. You do know how to work this, right?" he addressed the last words towards the Vulcan, who looked at the tricorder consideringly.

"I believe that I am familiar with its basic functions, however..."

"All right, here...this scans for respiratory anomalies, and here..." McCoy indicated a few more controls on the tricorder before passing it over to Spock. "Make sure you keep an eye on his heartbeat; we don't want a repeat of the AF."

“Yes, Doctor.”

Jim cursed under his breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, I’m not,” McCoy said simply. “Unless, of course, you want to stay here…”

Jim sulked silently, glancing over at his first officer, then looked away as the Vulcan turned to regard him.

“That’s what I thought,” McCoy finally said, when no reply was forthcoming. “Besides,” he added, looking between Jim and Spock meaningfully, “you two need to work this out, whatever _this_ is. Frankly, it’s getting on my last nerve.”

"What? There's nothing-" Jim made a feeble attempt at protesting, and McCoy looked at him exasperatedly.

"You think I haven't noticed, Jim? With the way you two are acting?"

Jim at least had the grace to look embarrassed while Spock elected to avert his eyes, studying the floor with clinical interest. Bizarrely, the Vulcan reached up, as if about to run his fingers through his hair, and visibly checked himself, frowning down at his hand as if it was a foreign object.

Jim mumbled incoherently under his breath, but accepted the folded uniform McCoy eventually found in a storage niche and tossed at him, stripping off his white medical top unceremoniously and flinging it to one side. He had his head and one arm into his black undershirt when the doctor stopped him.

"Hold up, let me check your ribs."

Jim rolled his eyes, but held up the hem of his shirt obligingly while McCoy ran a light hand over his left side, pausing to probe carefully at where the bones had fractured. Spock watched the proceedings intently from across the room, clearly watching for any unfavorable response from Jim that would warrant another night's stay in the medbay. Jim kept his expression rigidly blank as McCoy poked and prodded. There was a light patch of bruising over his sternum that the doctor eyed suspiciously.

"How much does that hurt?" he asked in concern. "It's pretty normal after going through something like that, you know."

"Yeah, you two really did a number on me," Jim muttered, twitching a vague smile to ease the sting.

McCoy shrugged helplessly. "We thought we were going to lose you, so we might have.....well, Spock might have....overcompensated a bit at one point."

"Well, he's overcompensating for something, that's for sure," Jim mumbled, rolling his shirt down over his chest.

"Your implications, as always, Jim, lack in sophistication," Spock said icily, “not to mention accuracy."

Jim shrugged noncommittally, pulling on the rest of the uniform and making his way to the corridor, Spock and McCoy following him closely.

"I'm serious, Jim," McCoy was saying, catching Jim's elbow and turning him around. "I've seen people, men, women...after going through crap like this, they don't just get up and walk away."

Jim could feel Spock's gaze on him and pointedly avoided it. "Watch me,” he said eventually, after a brief hesitation.

"Not talking about it ain't going to make it go away, you hear? There's nothing wrong with-"

"What's there to talk about?" Jim shrugged dismissively. "You were there, the both of you. You know everything that happened."

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," McCoy insisted impatiently.

"Well, if you remember anything new, let me know," Jim said with biting sarcasm. He turned to leave, striding off down the corridor, and Spock hesitated, looking briefly at McCoy before turning to follow Jim.

Behind them, McCoy shook his head and sighed. "You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?" he called out peevishly.

Jim paused for half a step, looking almost as if he was going to turn back around for a split second, but stopping before the movement had begun. "So I've been told," he said at last.

He kept walking, and this time, McCoy didn't try to stop him.

After a couple of moments, Spock moved up quietly so that he walked by Jim's side, their shoulders almost brushing together. It had become almost an unconscious gesture between them, but now they seemed to both realize it at the same time and moved slightly apart out of silent agreement.

There was a pause before the Vulcan spoke, just enough for Jim to tell that Spock was aware of his avoidance. "Starfleet has issued a search for the escaped terrorists while you were incapacitated, Captain. Their capture is only a matter of time." He hesitated as Jim glanced at him, and averted his eyes. "Captain, if I may inquire-"

"Not now, Spock," Jim said tersely, and he could feel the Vulcan's disapproval in the ensuing silence, as well as his own guilt prodding him irritably in the gut.

When he finally reached his rooms and unlocked the doors, Spock followed closely behind him, practically breathing down his neck. When Jim turned around to put his communicator down on a table and nearly crashed into his first officer, he decided enough was enough. He couldn't bring himself to even look at Spock the same yet, not after what had….well, not after how much he'd shown the Vulcan, consciously or not.

He threw up his hands, stepping away from Spock in frustration. "Look, I get it, okay? This is your job and all that, but you've gotta give me a little space here, all right?"

Spock studied him critically and apparently came to his own conclusions. “You are in need of sleep,” he said decisively. “I suggest that you rest now.”

Jim had a wild and terrifying vision of trying to fall asleep while Spock loomed responsibly over him and quickly shook his head. “I’ve slept long enough,” he grumbled, remembering the long hours in medbay under McCoy’s beady glare, "and I’ve got work to do."

He glanced reluctantly at his desk, piled high with invoices and legal debris, and resignedly made his way to his seat. After a moment, Spock followed suit, sitting down primly at a nearby table and beginning his own work.

It wasn't long before the silence began to irk Jim. Spock wasn't helping much either, his attention inexplicably held by the globe of Earth sitting innocuously on the table. It had always been there; Jim had no idea why the hell Spock was so fascinated by the thing now. He coughed once awkwardly, the sound uncomfortably loud. "You mind if I, ah..." he gestured futilely. “D'you mind if I put on some music?"

Spock arched an eyebrow, dragging his eyes away from the globe. "Not at all, Captain.”

Jim hesitated a second more, then reached over and tapped at his console, bringing up the preset acoustics over the room’s speakers. A low murmuring of sound began, and Jim settled back to his work, letting himself fall into a sort of numb routine. He wasn’t paying much mind to which songs were playing until one particular strain caught his attention.

_...Someone told me love would all save us_

_But, how can that be, look what love gave us-_

It was already too late. He noticed Spock’s tilted head as he listened to the music curiously, and Jim felt a rush of mortification and self-consciousness as the song continued to play on, the gravelly voice of some long-gone musical sensation rising in volume. He cleared his throat and stabbed at the console screen determinedly, turning the song off.

Spock looked over at him with a strange expression. “That was….peculiar,” he said contemplatively.

“It’s an old song,” Jim muttered, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t know it.”

Spock nodded slowly. “I would not be opposed to hearing the rest of it,” he said, after a moment of reflection.

Jim glanced at him skeptically. “Huh, I thought you'd be more of the “classical” type. Some of this twenty-first century's stuff’s pretty weird, you know?”

Spock merely looked at him expectantly, and Jim shrugged awkwardly, reaching over to turn the music back on.

_-And they say that a hero can save us,_

_I'm not gonna stand here and wait-_

Spock started a little at this, glancing at Jim and catching his gaze for a moment. Something about that made Jim feel inexplicably self-conscious, and he pushed himself away from the desk with the intent of fetching a cup of coffee from the replicator.

"Tea for you, right?" Jim tossed offhandedly over his shoulder, thinking it was only polite to offer. But before he could complete the order, his hand froze on the replicator controls, a chilling revelation jolting down his spine. Spock had never told him that he drank tea before. So how the hell did he know-

He turned abruptly, the coffee forgotten, and saw that Spock had stood and moved around the table, staring at the globe once more. As Jim watched, Spock reached out tentatively, tapping the globe carefully and sending it into a light spin. The continents went round and round, gradually coming to a slow stop.

Jim was dimly aware of his pounding heart, of the feeling of tight, muffled panic rising swiftly within him. No. It was impossible.

Spock idly traced the outline of Australia, brow furrowed as if in distant memory. “This is from your mother?” the Vulcan finally murmured, but something in his voice signified that he already knew the answer.

Jim forgot how to breathe, his throat closing for a moment before he forced out the words, “I think you know.”

Spock looked up at him, his hand poised hesitantly over the Pacific Ocean.

_He can’t know he can’t possibly know it was our secret-_

“Do it,” Jim said, his voice muffled and blurry under the heavy rushing of blood in his ears. “You know, don’t you.” It was not quite a question, and yet he hoped desperately that Spock would deny it, would frown at him quizzically and ask him what he was talking about.

Spock regarded the globe quietly for another moment, and then moved assertively, pressing his fingers with utter certainty against Africa, South America, Europe, North America. Jim bit his lip as Spock’s hand hovered over Australia, then pressed down.

Jim automatically signaled for the lights to dim, knowing what was coming. The lines of longitude on the globe split apart slightly, separating the sphere into separate segments with a faint white light seeping through the cracks.

The dark walls of Jim's room were suddenly awash with light, the floor and ceiling likewise transfigured as the three-dimensional projection of the universe flickered into life around them. Planets spun distantly in their celestial dance through the air, clouds of icy stardust swirling above the floor. Jim watched with a nostalgic fascination as a nebula twirled beside him, a sun winking into existence and disappearing before his eyes. But the most spectacular sight was the stars, surrounding them like falling, iridescent snowflakes frozen in time.

Jim was distantly aware of the song still playing in the background, reaching the peak of its chorus with a spiraling sense of finality as he stared at Spock. The Vulcan looked nearly stricken at the marvelous sight, his eyes finding Jim's across a sea of stars. Suddenly, Jim felt a surge of outrage, his fists clenching at his sides. "What," he said slowly, his voice shaking with forceful restraint, "did you do to my mind?"

"Jim, I-"

"How the hell did you know all that?!" Jim all but shouted at him, his heartbeat a frantic drumming in his chest.

Spock shook his head placatingly, taking a tentative step towards him. "Jim, it is not-”

Jim gestured angrily with a violent slash through the air. "Music, off." The song abruptly stopped, and for a moment, the two of them stared at each other across the expanse of a million galaxies in silence. Spock was looking at him, something in his expression that hadn't been there before....before all this, and Jim felt a stab of betrayal deep in his chest. "What aren't you telling me?" he demanded.

"I suspect that we are experiencing a residual effect from the meld," Spock said resignedly. "There was not time to disengage properly and...." He made an awkward movement that might have been an attempt at a shrug, and the sight was both so unbearably human and unlike Spock than it only served to make Jim angrier. Spock had probably lifted that from his mind, too, as well as who knew what?

"Fix it."

Spock blinked at him. "I do not believe it to be possible, Jim. The human mind was never intended to-"

Jim swore loudly, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. "How much do you know?" he asked at length. It was probably a mark of how deeply Spock had seen within him that he did not require further clarification.

"It would be unwise of me to inform you."

"Damn it, Spock, it's my own memories we're talking about. I've got every right to know!"

The Vulcan turned for a moment to consider the globe, then reached out slowly and gave it a light tap, sending the sphere spinning. Around them, stars and planets blurred as they whirled and revolved around each other. It was dizzying, it was beautiful, and Jim tried not to think about how he had done the same once himself.

"It was raining," Spock began, his voice quiet and distant. "The house was dark when you returned from the town. You....had a cut, here, after provoking a violent altercation that night." He touched his own mouth absently, eyes fixed on the globe as it slowed to a stop. “You were not aware of her presence until she spoke."

_"Did you forget?"_

Spock's trailing fingertips skipped across the Atlantic Ocean. "You were angry. She was rarely home."

_"Does it matter?"_

"She looked at you with an expression you could not read, but you could see the sorrow there, as well as the resentment." Spock paused, his fingers lingering on Russia. "You were accustomed to this, but it pained you to see it nevertheless." Jim flinched at the words, tearing his eyes away from Spock as the Vulcan traced the edges of Asia, and stared fixedly at a meandering solar system by his feet.

"There was a package," Spock added, his eyes closing briefly. "On the table. You wondered how you missed it before."

_"Open it,” she said finally._

_He pulled the ice pack from his lip and frowned at the red staining the fibers of the towel before looking at the object warily. "What is it?"_

" _It's for you." She drank calmly from the mug she held between her hands. "Happy Birthday," she added after a moment, and there was something hard in her voice._

Jim's own voice was caught in his throat. He wanted to protest, to make Spock stop, but he was already continuing and it was too late-

_The globe was something that should be in a museum, not a kitchen table in Iowa. He looked up at his mother. She wasn't looking at him, staring at the globe instead. He couldn't read her eyes, and it bothered him._

_“Pay attention,” she said softly, and he did. Thunder rumbled outside the window, and for a moment a flash of lightning flooded the room. She reached out and pressed her fingertip against Africa. South America. Europe._

_He watched her bemusedly, the throbbing of his cuts and bruises forgotten. Then the globe split open and the stars spilled out, and he forgot everything._

_It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and so was the look in her eyes when she gazed out at the swirling constellations. Then she looked at him, and her eyes darkened, and-_

"You did not wish for her to leave,” Spock continued relentlessly, “but the next day-"

_“How long will you be gone this time?” he heard himself ask, tracing the lines on the globe with fascination. He wanted to open it up, see where the magic was, but there was something about it that made him almost afraid to touch it._

_“Who knows?” she replied, after a short pause. He looked up, slightly surprised. It was sometimes a week, a month, once even a year. But she always knew._

_“Will you be back?” He didn’t know why he asked and hated himself for the waver in his voice._

_She looked at him, bag slung over her shoulder and golden hair pulled back tight from her face. It made her look older, sharper. “Keep that,” she said, nodding at the globe, and took her keys from the counter._

_He couldn’t stop her; he never could. But this time, it was different. This time... she stopped, and looked back at him, and something in her expression softened the slightest degree. She walked over and stopped in front of him, tilting her head back to look at his face. He looked back helplessly, wondering when he’d gotten so much taller. After another moment, she gave a firm nod and stood on her toes to brush her lips against his forehead in a light kiss. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, she was already closing the door behind her._

“That was the last time you ever saw her," Spock said quietly. "You received a notice of her death seven years later.”

Jim looked at him sharply, anger throbbing in his voice, "You know every damn detail, don't you?"

Spock looked back steadily. "You believed her to have abandoned you that night-"

"Enough." Jim's voice cut in. His tone was harsh and rough with emotion that he barely managed to keep at bay. He shook his head forcefully. "Turn it off.”

Spock looked up at him, caught off guard for a moment, then hesitantly reached out and placed his hand over the top of the globe, twisting it until the segments clicked back into place. The lights disappeared, the stars faded away, and the room was black for a split second before the lights automatically switched back on.

“You see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Jim said vehemently. “I never needed her." He stared hard at Spock, daring him to deny it.

Spock blinked, clearly taken aback by his anger. "I..." he trailed off, watching as Jim began to abruptly move about the room, yanking clean clothing vindictively from his drawers.”Captain?"

Jim sighed in frustration. "I'm taking a shower," he said shortly, his voice edged in ice, "if that's all right with you."

"You are angry with me," Spock stated.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Jim found a clean pair of briefs and added them to his pile.

"I am sorry if I caused you emotional distress, Jim. That was not my intent."

"Not now, Spock," Jim muttered, opening a drawer and glaring inside, cursing under his breath. He couldn't very well go to bed in his briefs like he usually did, not with his first officer prowling around the place, but now he couldn't find a pair of pants that weren't regulation trousers. He didn't realize he had spoken aloud until Spock answered from behind him.

"Second drawer from the bottom."

Jim bent automatically to check the contents of the drawer, and then froze, turning his head to glare at Spock sidelong. _Bastard_. The pants were where Spock had said they were, and that pissed him off more than it should have.

“That must be useful, having a photographic memory,” he said offhandedly. “Especially when the memory’s not even yours.”

“It has its merits,” Spock said carefully.

Jim snorted and finally began making his way to the bathroom. Spock stepped towards him uncertainly.

"You can stay here. Unless, of course 'careful observation' means you gotta follow me in." Jim said sarcastically.

Spock answered solemnly, “If it is necessary, Captain, I can accompany you-”

"Hell no," Jim snapped instantly. He cleared his throat, feeling an inexplicable strain of guilt under Spock’s surprised stare. The guy was only trying to help, after all, in his own ridiculously sincere way. "It's really not necessary, Spock. I’ll be fine. "

Spock studied him a moment longer, then nodded in weary affirmation. "Yes, Captain."

The last thing Jim saw before the bathroom door closed was Spock settling himself resignedly into one of the chairs around the room, picking up a spare datapad.

He undressed automatically, grimacing when his chest tightened as he bent to pull off his socks. The shower jets were soothing against his back as he stepped under the stream, though, easing the tension from his neck and shoulders. He stood there a long time before moving to wash himself, tilting his face up and letting the warm water cascade over his closed eyes. The sound of pounding water filled his ears, and for a moment he felt like he was truly alone. The thought was both terrible and reassuring.

The mirror was completely fogged over with steam by the time he exited the shower, and he reached over to wipe it clean with his hand before drying his face with the corner of his towel. Glancing down, he noticed the same faint purple bruise over his sternum, where the dermal regenerator hadn't quite managed to erase the traces of the beating his body had taken. He placed a hand over it absently, felt the slight ache there that he would never admit to Bones, or Spock, for that matter. He wanted to tear his eyes away from it, but for some inexplicable reason, he couldn't.

_“Stay with me, Jim.”_

Jim found that he couldn’t forget the determination he had seen in the Vulcan's eyes in that moment. He wasn't sure if Spock's words had been an order or a request, but they had resonated within him, making the pain of the compressions that had followed somehow that much sharper. He could still feel the weight of Spock dropping down on his chest, felt a tight pressure there even now, and he wondered if he would ever be able to forget that.

Jim shook his head forcefully and dressed himself, stepping purposefully towards the door before he faltered and stopped. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the closed door. He suddenly found that he couldn't move, couldn't make himself take one more step towards the door, towards his first officer.

He stumbled back, stopping only when his back met the wall with a dull thud, and he let his knees buckle almost gratefully, sliding down the wall slowly. He couldn't go out there and face Spock like this. He couldn't look into his face and see his own memories looking back, because they were terrible things, awful things he wouldn't wish on anyone but himself- things he had tried to repress.

He supported his head between his hands and took a deep breath, drawing one knee up to his chest. "It's all right," he muttered to himself, as he had done so many times before, all those years ago when the belt struck too hard or the resentment cut too deep, "It's all right, you're all right." He took another breath, letting it out shakily. "I'm all right," he whispered, and tried to believe it.

It was a few more minutes before Jim managed to pull himself back together enough to stand, pulling at his shirt absently where it had ridden up past his waistband. He walked to the door, proud of the steadiness of his own voice as he deactivated the lock.

When he finally stepped out from the bathroom, he nearly walked right into Spock, who stepped back automatically to avoid a head-on collision. “Spock, what do you think you’re-” Jim cut himself off, lingering awkwardly into the doorway. He could feel embarrassment and righteous affront warming his face, and cursed his tendency to flush in times of high stress. He settled for a reprimanding glare. “What are you doing?”

“Captain, I thought I heard…” Spock trailed off, staring at Jim bemusedly. “I believe I was mistaken, sir.”

“Apology accepted,” Jim muttered, stepping around Spock and heading for his desk again. “You might as well sit back down. I’m not going anywhere for a while.” He settled down in his own chair and pulled his work towards him with grim intent. “You know, you could go to sleep,” he said, somewhat hopefully. “Bed's free. I've slept plenty these past two days.”

“Thank you, Captain, but that will not be necessary. If the need arises, meditation will be sufficient,” Spock answered, seating himself at the table once more and picking up his PADD.

“Naturally,” Jim mumbled, bending his head to the task before him. He then looked up again as something occurred to him. “You know, this....residual effect, it cuts both ways.”

“Captain?”

“That _means_...I've probably got something from your head in here, too.” Jim tapped his temple. “Unfortunately.”

“One might consider it an improvement,” Spock said archly.

Jim scowled. “ _One_ should have been more careful with poking around in other people's heads in the first place.”  Spock blinked at him for a moment, and they both settled down to work again in disgruntled silence. It was a long time before either of them spoke again.

Spock looked up a little while later when he noticed a gradual change in Jim’s breathing patterns. Jim's head was drooping slightly, descending towards the surface of the desk with alarming velocity. Then, suddenly, it jerked up again, Jim blinking fiercely in an effort to stay awake. Spock quickly averted his gaze before Jim could catch him watching, fixing his eyes steadily on his own datapad. This happened several times over the next hour, until, eventually, Spock did not hear Jim jolt back to awareness and chanced a glance upwards.

Jim's head seemed to have finally made its way down to the desk, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Spock watched warily for a few more moments until he was certain that Jim was well asleep, both his respiration and heart rate at a slow tempo, before unfolding himself from his seat, setting his own work down quietly on the table.

He crossed the room silently and gently slid the PADD from Jim's hand, placing it neatly on the top of a stack of unfinished documents. Jim shifted slightly, grumbling incoherently into his forearm, and Spock waited until he had settled back down before reaching into his pocket and running McCoy's tricorder carefully over Jim.

After confirming that all was well with the captain, physically, at least, Spock stood back and considered the sleeping man solemnly. There was a slight flush to what little of Jim’s face he could see and a sheen of sweat beneath his hairline as he shifted again, rubbing absently at his sternum.

“Computer,” Spock said quietly. “Lower room temperatures by five degrees Celsius.” It was not a preferred temperature for his particular physiology, Spock acknowledged, though it would be beneficial to Jim given his current physical state. The air felt marginally cooler already as he contemplated this, and Spock suppressed his own discomforted response. Satisfied by his actions, Spock returned to his post at the table and picked up his work once more.

Presently, his communicator beeped at his waist, and Spock answered quickly before any further noise could awaken the captain.

_"Commander Spock, we have received an urgent transmission from Starfleet."_

Spock glanced up warily at Jim, who did not appear to have been disturbed by the call, and deliberately thumbed down the volume on his communicator before redirecting his attention to the message. "Proceed."

" _They have news, sir, regarding the recent planetside incident."_ There was a short pause, in which the officer at the other end took a deep breath before continuing, _"It concerns the terrorists."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Lyrics to A Hero Can Save Us (c) Nickelback


	5. Chapter 5

“Captain.”

He stirred, rising groggily out of sleep. “Urghhmm?”

“Captain.” The voice was more insistent this time, as well as the firm hand shaking his shoulder. Jim opened his eyes irritably, rising fully to consciousness. “Spock, what the-”

“We have managed to apprehend the terrorists, Captain.”

Jim sat straight up, his neck popping in complaint at the movement. The room’s lights were dimmed- Spock’s doing, he suspected- and the Vulcan himself was standing beside him. “The criminals were brought aboard the _Enterprise_ approximately three point five minutes ago,” Spock informed him, clasping his hands behind his back once more as he made his report.

 _“They’re here?”_ Jim rubbed hard at his eyes, willing himself back to full awareness. He felt like he’d had the longest dream, but he couldn’t remember it for the life of him.

Spock inclined his head. “Affirmative, sir. They await your judgment in the brig.”

"All right." Jim pushed himself up from the desk, wiping at a spot of drool from its surface subtly with his sleeve. Spock stepped back, allowing him to lead the way out of his quarters. The doors hissed shut behind Jim's heels, and he stopped in bewilderment.

The corridor was completely dark, without the illumination of even the emergency lighting. He turned and fumbled back for his doors, but his fingers met empty space. “Spock?” he called out uncertainly, trepidation building rapidly with every heartbeat.

He turned around again blindly, nearly tripping over his own feet, and stepped forward hesitantly, arms outstretched to avoid bashing into a wall. There was a light ahead, he saw now, a thin flickering line about ten feet away. He made for it with increasing confidence, then stopped when he felt a smooth surface against his hand, chipped and flaking with paint that he could suddenly see-

He reached down and turned the doorknob.

The door swung open silently. He stepped through the doorway into a small room, half-filled by a counter and a rickety wooden table. A lamp swung overhead, but the light was off, and the sky outside the screened window was looming with dark storm clouds. Rain lashed harshly against the glass in heavy sheets, drumming on the roof overhead.

The door closed behind him, and the floor beneath his feet vibrated as a rumble of thunder shook the skies. Jim felt eerily calm, looking around the kitchen steadily. There was the crayon scribbling on the wallpaper that he had left when he was five, the ugly sunflower apron he had always hated was hanging over its usual peg, and by the closed back door to his left was a line of discarded shoes.

It was his house, or, at least, the house he had grown up in.

The kitchen had been empty when he entered, but as Jim looked around again, he saw a figure seated at the kitchen table facing him. The figure’s back was to the window, and their face was obscured from his sight.

As he neared the table, the figure shifted in and out of focus, until he found himself recognizing, with a startled lurch to his stomach, the silhouette of the man that he had seen in the ruins seconds before his capture. The terrorist. For a blurry moment, he thought he could make out the man's face, all cold eyes and grim frown-

Then he took one more step, and it was his mother looking out at him, her slender frame clad in the desert fatigues of the terrorists.

"Hello, Jimmy," she said quietly. There was no gray in her hair, no lines at the corners of her eyes. She was as young and ethereal as his vaguest memories of her, and when he blinked again, the fatigues had been replaced by the soft pastel colors she preferred, the sleeves of her loose sweater rolled up to her elbows.

"Mom," he started to say, uncertainly.

She smiled at him, but her eyes were cold. "It's your fault, you know."

There was a pang in the center of his chest, deep and piercing. He winced reflexively, touching his sternum gingerly. There was a frantic pulsing there, fast and insistent.

_"...one...two...three...four...five....six....seven, breathe, Jim."_

"Why are you here?" he asked. He could feel an aching pressure in his chest now, and he wanted nothing more than for it to go away-"

"You know why." The sound of her voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of pounding rain, but her eyes were steady and cutting. "You know what you did."

_"Hang on, Jim-"_

“What....what did I do?" he asked, dreading the answer and needing to know all the same.

_"Clear!"_

Lightning flashed, and his body jolted with a numbing impact, sending him staggering back against the wall. He clutched at his chest, wheezing and gasping for air as the last shocks jerked through him. His chest felt tight and heavy, as if something was weighing down on his ribs.

She seemed to be waiting for something, sitting there watching him with glittering eyes as he struggled to catch his breath. As he slowly pushed from the wall and stumbled towards the table again, she leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. Behind her, the window suddenly shattered, and the storm swept in through the broken shards.

_"Jim, open your eyes."_

"What....did I do?" he repeated hoarsely.

Her lips tilted again in that empty smile, her eyes like mirrors.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't see for the raindrops lashing his face-

"You were born."

Another hard jolt shook through him, merciless in its intensity-

_"Now, Captain!"_

...

There was a sudden gasp, and Spock looked up sharply just as Jim began thrashing in his bed, choking out half-formed nonsense as he clawed at the sheets. Spock made his way hastily over to the man and bent over just as Jim sat up, his hand swinging out wildly and clipping the Vulcan's jaw in the process. Ignoring the dull throb, Spock calmly caught his wrist before he could land another blow, holding him firmly still. "Jim."

Jim stared at him with wide eyes that were not completely focused, still half lost in his dreams. His shoulders were heaving, his breath coming in short pants that were increasing in desperation. “I-” he gasped, clearly struggling to breathe. “I can’t-”

Spock put a hand up automatically as Jim instinctively began to curl in on himself, pushing his palm against Jim’s sternum to keep him upright. "Jim, breathe," he instructed.

Jim wheezed, clearly struggling for air. His eyes were still glazed with panic, his pupils dilated as he struggled to get away from Spock. "No-"

"Jim, you must calm-" Spock ducked another swinging blow from Jim's free hand. "Jim," he said again, with increasing frustration. The man did not appear to hear him, or perhaps he could not, but something, Spock decided, must be done.

The Vulcan found his gaze drawn to the hand he still held to Jim's chest to prevent him from collapsing, and was struck by an utterly irrational notion. But the time for logic was past, and he followed through instantly, pressing hard against Jim's sternum where he had administered the compressions barely sixty hours ago. Despite McCoy's care, the area could not possibly be completely devoid of sensitivity yet-

Jim coughed harshly, his eyes flickering in shock. Spock pressed his hand reflexively harder against Jim's chest, rubbing in small circles in an effort to reassure him. Jim shook at his touch, his free hand coming up and grabbing Spock's wrist- not to pull him away, but to keep his hand in place.

Spock stilled, feeling the rapid pounding of Jim's heart beneath his palm. It seemed dangerously fast, and he shifted slightly, half intending to fetch the tricorder, but Jim clung to him tightly, his eyes growing wild as he perceived Spock's intent. "No," he rasped feverishly, his fingers shaking where they locked around Spock's wrist. "Don't."

Spock changed his course and sat down on the edge of the bed instead, ignoring the awkward twist of the position as he did so. Jim’s ragged breaths were gradually smoothing out, he noted, though the tremor remained in his hands and shoulders. Spock released Jim's other wrist tentatively and watched as his hand fell limply to his side, fingers curling into the sheets.

He reached automatically for Jim's psi-points with his now free hand, knowing the relief a meld would offer, and then hesitated, changing his course to grip the man’s shoulder instead. Jim shuddered, taking in a shaking breath, and visibly relaxed, slumping forward until his head leaned heavily against Spock's shoulder. Gradually, Jim’s breathing began to ease further, evening out until there was only the slightest hint of a hitch.

“How…” Jim’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “How did I even get in bed?”

“You are a turbulent sleeper,” Spock said dryly. “Upon realizing the damage you had dealt to your surrounding area, I made a practical judgment to relocate you to a safer location.”

Jim huffed in slight amusement. There was a short pause, during which Jim seemed to come abruptly to his senses and pulled away sharply, dropping Spock’s hand from his chest instantly as if the contact was physically painful.

Spock shifted on the bed, not without a certain degree of awkwardness, as Jim untangled himself from the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, searching out his shoes.

“What happened while I was…” Jim trailed off vaguely, deliberately avoiding Spock’s gaze.

“Starfleet has sent their latest report on the search for the terrorists,” Spock answered, drawing back into his professionalism. “They are currently pursuing a possible lead on their location from a contact on Sumiko IV.”

Jim nodded absently. “Good. Ah.” He hesitated a moment, glancing quickly at Spock before fixing his gaze on the floor once more. “I’d appreciate it if...if you didn’t tell Bones about-” he searched valiantly for a word and concluded with a helpless gesture “- _that_.”

Spock frowned disapprovingly, “Captain, the Chief Medical Officer should be informed if you are suffering from-”

“I’m not _suffering_ from anything,” Jim snapped. “Just don’t….don’t tell him. Promise,” he added fiercely, turning his head to stare directly at Spock. “Promise me you won’t.”

Spock opened his mouth uncertainly, but before he could speak, a burst of static suddenly erupted over the intercom, loud and crackling. Jim startled visibly, looking up in shock. “What the-”

_“Sir, they're locked onto our signal.”_

The voice over the ship's intercoms was cracked and faded, swelling oddly in volume. Spock tilted his head, the wording and voice eerily familiar. Beside him, Jim had gone very still, his head raised attentively.

_“They're launching again!”_

Spock suddenly recalled where he had once heard this particular exchange, years ago while reviewing a certain dissertation. "Is this not...." he began, only to be shushed absently by Jim, who was frowning slightly in concentration as he listened intently. His eyes were widening now in growing realization, his jaw setting as the words became clear.

_“Bravo-six maneuver fire full…”_

A smattering of booming impacts overwhelmed the rest of the sentence, but Jim knew that voice as surely as he knew his own. His chest went abruptly cold, his thumping heart stuttering almost to a clear halt.

 _“I'm initiating General Order Thirteen. We're evacuating_ ,” said his father.

Jim stood abruptly, his face closed and guarded. "Bridge," he said shortly, immediately stripping off his casual shirt and tossing it aside in lieu of his uniform.

As he dressed, Spock commed the bridge, speaking as soon as Lieutenant Uhura answered. “Lieutenant, the transmission-”

_“I can’t stop it, Spock. There's nothing I can do from my end- something's locked onto our ship-wide systems. Is Jim-"_

"We will be there soon," Spock said quietly, and ended the call.

_“All decks, this is the Captain speaking: Evacuate the ship immediately. Get down to the shuttlecrafts. Repeat, evacuate immediately…..”_

Jim flinched unconsciously and turned to Spock, now dressed. "Let's go."

The corridors, bathed in flashing red lights, were filled with crew members rushing left and right, most of them managing to register and salute the two of them as they ran towards the turbolift. Jim was slightly ahead of Spock, and what the Vulcan could see of his face, he did not like. In his distraction, Spock almost missed the urgent beeping at his waist and startled back to awareness, answering the call as they approached the lift.

It was McCoy, obviously breathless with exertion and worry as he all but shouted, _"Spock, where the hell are you two?! Jim's not answering-"_

"We are approximately twenty-five seconds away from arrival, Doctor," Spock said tersely. "I presume you are already present at the bridge?"

 _"What do you think?"_ McCoy snapped, then after a second's pause, asked, _"How's the kid?"_

Spock took a moment to eye Jim's tense demeanor apprehensively, his posture rigid and defensive as he jabbed at the button to summon the lift. "I am...uncertain," he answered after some deliberation.

" _Damn it,"_ McCoy mumbled, his voice distant as if he was already pulling away. " _It's not right, him hearing it for the first time like this..._ " The comm ended with a definite click.

The lift, fortunately, was still functional, despite the substantially dimmed lighting. Jim kept a hand on the controls the entire way up, stabbing at the button repeatedly. Spock thought to tell him that it would do little good, but one glance at Jim's expression kept him silent.

_“I need you to go now, do you hear me?”_

_“Waiting on you, sir-”_

_“No, just go. Take off immediately. That’s an order.”_

_"Yes, sir."_

"Come on," Jim muttered suddenly, his hand clenching on the controls. "Come on, come on, come _on_!" His foot lashed out, kicking the wall angrily and eliciting a reproachful beep from the control panel. Spock glanced over at Jim wordlessly, unwilling to intrude and yet reluctant to let him continue in such a volatile manner. He made a tentative move in Jim's direction, then stopped as the lift arrived with a quiet chime.

_“No, wait. We can't go yet. Please, stop-”_

_“Sweetheart, listen to me.”_

The doors opened at last to a flurry of breaking chaos upon the deck. Consoles and alerts were beeping and flashing, the same red light painting the corridors swathing everything in an ominous glow. Uhura was the first to catch sight of them, half-rising from her seat with a stricken expression. "Captain, I'm so sorry-"

_"I'm not going to be there."_

Jim!" McCoy strode over, his face dark with concern, and reached instinctively to grasp Jim's arm. "Are you-"

Jim brushed past him without a word, heading for the communications station. Maybe he could do something, _anything_ , to stop this-

“Captain-” Uhura tried again, her voice hitching slightly, but he ignored her. Spock caught her elbow lightly with his fingertips and looked down at her, and she subsided reluctantly, eyes moistened with sympathy.

_“No, no- you need to be here- George, I can’t do this without you-”_

His mother's voice trembled and rose in panic, and Jim felt his stomach lurch in response. "Damn it, come on!" he growled, flipping at switches with desperate speed. "This isn't happening-"

 _“Okay, I need you to push_ now _.”_

A pain-filled cry shuddered overhead, and Jim’s shoulders tensed as he leaned over the console, all but punching its controls in his efforts to stop the transmission. Another cry shook the air, and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration, muttering under his breath. Beside Spock, McCoy made an aborted effort to say something, barely catching himself in time and swallowing hard.

“Somebody turn this damn thing off!” Jim burst out exasperatedly, slamming his hands down on the console forcefully.

“Captain, the recording is running from an outside source,” Sulu attempted valiantly from his station. “We cannot-”

Jim whirled around, eyes blazing with something verging on desperation. “There’s gotta be _something_ we can do!”

Moments later, the thin wailing of a child could be heard over the distant sound of explosions and firing. There was a flurry of glances directed Jim's way by various members of the bridge crew, but he did not make any indication of acknowledging them. He pushed away from the console, making his way slowly towards his command chair, as the sound of his first cries echoed over the intercom.

The bridge grew deathly still, appearing almost surreal under the flashing red lights.

 _“What is it?”_ asked his father, breathless and somewhat hopeful.

_“It's a boy.”_

_“A boy! Tell me about him.”_

_“He's beautiful.”_

Jim could feel a lump rising unbidden in his throat as he leaned his elbows against the back of the chair and lowered his head in resignation, dragging his fingers through his hair helplessly.

Behind him, Spock looked at McCoy, who spared him the briefest of glances before returning his concerned gaze to Jim.

 _"George, you should be here_. _"_

He heard the sound of his heartbeat pulsing ponderously in his chest, feeling it stumble at his mother's words. She had sounded so sure, so genuine, but it was the pleading he heard in her voice that nearly broke him.

_“What are we going to call him?”_

_“We can name him after your father,”_ she said almost casually, trying to be strong even as she faltered.

There was a breathless laugh, which held more panic than humor. “ _Tiberius? Are you kidding me? No, that's the worst. Let's name him after your dad."_ His father's voice wavered. _"Let's call him Jim.”_

There was a light brush of contact at his shoulder, and he looked up to see Spock standing at his side, just as he had always done. Jim stared at him for a moment, feeling an inexplicable sense of gratitude for the Vulcan's presence. He felt his eyes sting and blur, and turned his gaze away quickly.

His mother seemed to contemplate the name for a moment, clearly repeating it silently before murmuring it aloud, like a benediction.

_“Jim. Okay. Jim it is.”_

Jim closed his eyes, hearing the next words but barely registering them. He knew all too well how this would end.

_“Sweetheart, can you hear me?”_

_“I hear you,”_ she gasped, desperately clinging to his voice.

_“I love you so much. I love you-”_

The recording ended abruptly with a hissing static that echoed and rang through the bridge and the crowded corridors throughout the ship, before that too stopped and silence swelled deafeningly in its place. Jim felt numb in the empty moments that followed, distantly aware of the prickling of gazes all around him.

Spock shifted imperceptibly so that he was turned towards Jim, shielding him from the brunt of the stares, and leaned in slightly to speak quietly. "Captain," he began carefully, and his low voice snapped Jim back to reality. "What is your proposed course of action at this time?"

Jim hesitated a moment longer, drawing in a shaky breath as he struggled to regain his composure. He blinked away the moisture threatening to rebuild at the corners of his eyes and forced everything, all the hurt and sorrow and anger, to the back of his mind where it belonged.

"Lieutenant Uhura,” he said finally, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears. He turned to face her, and noted dimly the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Are you...are you able to confirm that the communications systems is clear of foreign interference?” His voice cracked briefly before he could recover, and he cursed himself weakly for it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Spock was still looking at him silently, the intensity of his gaze nearly tangible.

Uhura stared at him for a moment, then nodded and furiously swiped at her eyes. “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it.” She sat down at her console, fingers already flying across the interfaces, and gradually, the bridge began returning to its usual, if noticeably more subdued, bustle.

Jim finally allowed some of the tension in his shoulders to ease slightly, slumping back against the chair where he stood. He caught McCoy's eye, the doctor offering him a tight, worried smile from beside the door before starting towards him. Spock shifted again beside him, so that their shoulders brushed briefly once more in a suspiciously intentional move, and for a moment, Jim felt...safe.

Suddenly, the bridge was plunged into complete darkness, every screen and console blacking out. Jim felt disoriented for a split second, surrounded by a whirlwind of confused exclamations and clattering as datapads were sent tumbling to the floor. He felt Spock's hand grasp his elbow, steadying him before he could inevitably stumble, and before he could offer a word of gratitude, the lights were flickering back on, illuminating the pale, bewildered faces of the crew.

"What...." Jim began slowly, "the hell-"

"Captain," Uhura said, and her voice held a certain apprehension that Jim had never heard from her before. "Sir, we're being hailed."

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Suddenly, the bridge was plunged into complete darkness, every screen and console blacking out. Jim felt disoriented for a split second, surrounded by a whirlwind of confused exclamations and clattering as datapads were sent tumbling to the floor. He felt Spock's hand grasp his elbow, steadying him before he could inevitably stumble, and before he could offer a word of gratitude, the lights were flickering back on, illuminating the pale, bewildered faces of the crew._

_"What..." Jim began slowly, "the hell-"_

_"Captain," Uhura said, and her voice held a certain apprehension that Jim had never heard from her before. "Sir, we're being hailed."_

..

 

“Your orders, Captain,” Spock prompted quietly.

Jim hesitated a split second, then sat down in his command chair. “Patch it through, Uhura, and get me a trace on the coordinates.”

“Yes, sir.”

The screen suddenly flickered, and a face snapped into focus at the forefront of the bridge. The man looked to be middle-aged, the stark whiteness of his nondescript clothing emphasizing his tanned skin and short, silver-touched hair. His sharp features were worn slightly by age, though time had done nothing to diminish the heavy air of danger lurking about him, and Jim felt a chill as he recognized the cold gray eyes, the grim set of the mouth of the terrorist he had encountered on the planet.

"You," he heard himself say, his voice hard.

"Hello, Captain Kirk," the terrorist said smoothly. He had an odd voice, cultured, accentless, and not at all what Jim would have expected from a deranged vigilante. "I believe we've met?"

"I think I recall," Jim said coolly. "Didn't catch that name, though."

The man studied him for a moment, and inclined his head. "My name is Cetus. I am...pleased to see you again."

Jim raised an eyebrow sardonically. "That your actual name, or just what you're called?"

"My people call me Commander, but a name can be whatever you make of it. I'm not limited to merely one, in any case. Did you enjoy our greeting?" the man said graciously, spreading a hand in a manner that was clearly indicating the recording, and Jim felt his stomach clench at the reminder.

"Yeah, thanks for that," Jim responded dryly, narrowing his eyes. There was a light touch at his shoulder, and he didn't need to look up to realize who had moved forward to stand at his side. He felt himself unconsciously relax as Spock moved closer, his silent presence inexplicably calming.

“It all began with the _Kelvin_ , you know,” Cetus continued, almost conversationally. He did not have a face fit for smiling, and the calculated twitch at the corner of his mouth didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. But there was something else about him that didn’t sit right with Jim- he seemed too...indifferent, too detached, as if everything was below his notice. “Our cause.”

“And what is that?” Jim asked, hoping to keep the conversation going. The longer he stalled, the longer Uhura had to locate this crazy bastard.

"It won't work," the man said, as if he had read Jim's mind. "Our location is currently shielded. There is no use in attempting to trace this transmission." He smiled then, his eyes blank. "We will speak for as long as I deem it necessary."

“Damn it,” McCoy swore softly nearby, and Jim didn't miss the tension in his voice.

Jim forced himself to calm down, to take a deep breath and look at this professionally. “You hacked into our systems,” he said. “Why?”

Another magnanimous gesture. “A conversation between us is long overdue, don’t you think, Kirk? This way, I can ensure your full attention. After all, your life support systems are in the palm of my hand.” He raised a thin gray remote, waving it tantalizingly before the screen. “Quite literally, in this case.”

“You’re insane,” Jim burst out. “There’s four hundred people-”

"Four hundred and thirty, in fact. So you better listen closely." Cetus leaned forward, and his gray eyes swallowed the screen. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the _Kelvin_. The anniversary is arriving swiftly, no? In a mere three days, I believe." He watched Jim for a moment before continuing benevolently, "Please, allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations on the occasion of your birth."

Jim tensed, on the verge of rising from his seat. “You son of a-”

“I’d watch my words, if I were you,” the man admonished. “There are over four hundred lives in the balance, after all.” Jim subsided, seething, and the terrorist continued, “The _Kelvin_ incident was the final push to an already crumbling tower. You saw the city on that Klingon planet- it too stood firm once, but nothing can withstand the winds of time.”

“How poetic.”

"Captain, please," the man sighed, but his eyes were hard and pale as ice. "Starfleet began weaponizing two weeks after the death of your father, but the corruption began long before with the exponential progress of modern technology. The _Kelvin_ merely served as a public justification. The peacekeeping goals of your organization took second place to the name of justice, but it was a false front." Cetus tilted his head consideringly. "How do you suppose that planet ended up as it is? Barren and dry and lifeless?”

Jim licked his lips unconsciously. “If you’re suggesting….if you’re saying that _Starfleet_ -”

“The world is large,” Cetus said mercilessly, “but there are always more worlds, Kirk.”

Jim pressed, “There’s no proof-”

“Do you truly believe that they would have left any evidence intact?”

“No.” Jim shook his head in denial, forcing himself to remain seated despite his agitation. “No, you’re wrong.”

The terrorist lifted a shoulder dismissively. “It matters not what you believe, only what is true. In any case, Starfleet is rotting from the inside out, and men like me who truly love their world will stop them at all costs.”

“And men like _me_ ,” Jim snapped heatedly, “will always stop you.”

“Hmm. I see a sense of foolish loyalty runs in the family.” Cetus studied him for a moment, then asked casually, “How is your mother?”

Jim felt a slow burn of anger deep in his gut and lifted his chin defiantly. "She died three years ago."

Cetus tilted his head knowingly, his smirk reaching his eyes for the first time, and the sight made Jim's heart falter slightly in apprehension. "It must have been a beautiful funeral."

Jim saw red for a blazing second, and was suddenly aware that Spock’s hand had moved to his shoulder, his fingers tightening warningly. He took a deep breath, leaning back into his seat and concentrating on that one stabilizing point of contact.

“To business, then, now that the pleasantries are aside. I have a simple request, one that only requires you to answer truthfully.” Cetus watched him carefully as he spoke, spinning the remote idly in his hand.

Jim eyed it warily. “And if I don’t?”

The spinning stopped. The man examined the remote with feigned interest before flicking his eyes back to Jim. “I imagine that it will be rather uncomfortable for you. Tell me, have you ever seen a man freeze and suffocate simultaneously?”

Jim schooled his expression determinedly, despite the sudden fear coiling in his chest. He said nothing, and eventually the other man sighed and blinked at Jim consideringly. “You look remarkably well, Captain, for a man under your previous circumstances."

“No thanks to you,” Jim shot back, his hands tightening on the armrests. “Nasty thing, that bomb.”

“Ah, yes.” The man sat back in his own chair, steepling his fingers and gazing at Jim with slight annoyance. “You know, I was quite proud of that particular device. An ingenious machine, if I say so myself. Completely failproof.”

“Well, as you can see,” Jim spread his arms out pointedly, “it’s clearly not.”

“About that.” The man’s voice deepened, and Jim realized that under the subtle elegance hid a jagged blade. “I am curious as to how you managed to escape that particular….predicament.”

Jim said nothing, and behind him, McCoy shifted uneasily. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said at last, his mind racing.

Cetus pressed his lips together, and the remote began its casual revolutions again. "I am a very busy man, Captain Kirk, with very little patience for games. Now tell me, how did you disable the device?"

"Captain," Spock said quietly, urgently, and Jim felt a burst of panic as the terrorist's fingers poised over the remote threateningly. He suddenly found himself standing, the chair swiveling slightly from the force of his movement.

“You-“

“If you do not respond satisfactorily in three minutes, I will press this button here and your crew will die a slow, horrific death at your own hands,” Cetus said bluntly, leaning forward once more. “It’s not so difficult a decision, not if you’re half the man I believe you to be.”

"You don't know me," Jim said adamantly, but a chill of dread had already begun to settle within him at the terrorist's words.

“I know many men like you. You will tell me, I think.” A satisfied smile touched the corners of his mouth as he settled back. “Two and a half minutes. Choose wisely.”

“You can’t,” McCoy’s voice suddenly muttered at his ear. A hand gripped his arm, pulling him so that he turned away from the screen. The doctor’s eyes were wide with worry, his eyebrows drawn together. “You can’t tell him, Jim, who knows what the hell he could do with that thing once he manages to perfect it?!”

Jim shook his head dazedly, his blood rushing in his ears. “Bones, he’s got the ship-”

“Jim, listen to me!” McCoy growled, shaking him once roughly. “We all knew what we were getting into when we signed on- every single one of us on this ship. If we die-”

“No-” Jim said emphatically.

"Look, we don’t have time for this. If we die here, it’ll be for the right cause. So for once in your life, do it for the bigger picture, Jim.” McCoy squeezed his arm, then released it, his eyes fierce.

Jim was silent, counting the seconds. “I can’t take that risk, Bones,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

“So you’d rather trust _him_ over me?” McCoy hissed, jerking his chin pointedly at the screen. “You honestly think he’ll let us go once you tell him?”

“One minute, Captain,” the terrorist drawled out nonchalantly. “I trust that you’ve come to a sensible conclusion?”

Jim scanned McCoy’s face for a moment longer. “I have,” he finally replied, without turning. He glanced over at Spock briefly before facing the screen again. “The answer is no.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Cetus murmured, almost to himself. He studied Jim carefully, and nodded, seeming to accept what he saw.

Jim folded his hands behind his back and straightened, settling into the unfamiliar position with a strange ease before he realized what he was doing. Or rather, whom he was unknowingly imitating.

The terrorist exhaled thoughtfully. “A brave decision, Kirk, I will allow you that. Brave, but foolish, to think that it will make a difference," His eyes suddenly narrowed, and the relaxed politeness vanished as swiftly as if it had never existed. "Perhaps you require a little...persuasion in order to correct your error."

He raised the remote and pushed the button.

Jim realized what he was doing a second too late. “Stop it, damn it- what the hell will you accomplish by killing us?!”

"I imagine that you will begin to feel the effects presently,” Cetus said calmly, disregarding Jim's protests entirely. “It will be no more than five minutes before you all succumb."

Jim's stomach dropped sickeningly.

"Perhaps you feel more forthcoming now?"

Jim turned to face Dr. Marcus' station and caught her eye meaningfully. He felt a rush of relief when the woman needed no further clarification and nodded quickly, already moving for the doors.

"There’s nothing you can do, Captain,” the man assured him, looking almost amused as the doors closed behind Marcus. “Your systems are completely locked. The only way to stop it now is to answer.”

Jim spun around, glaring hatefully at the terrorist's blank face. "You'd condemn a whole ship to death?!"

The first indication of solid anger flashed briefly in those pale frozen eyes. "Do not forget, Kirk, that you too once condemned the crew of the _Vengeance_ to certain death yourself. Do you think that they received mercy as their ship burned around them? If they were dead before they struck the city, it would have been a blessing."

Jim faltered. “What’s that got to do with this?”

The terrorist merely gazed at him silently, and Jim continued insistently, "You'd kill four hundred-"

"A life is a life. Do you think the mothers of five men would weep any less than the mothers of five hundred? Do you think I would have grieved any less for my brother if he had been in a crew of three hundred more?" The terrorist shook his head slowly. "He died honorably aboard the _Vengeance_ , serving his cause in enemy territory, and that's something you shining officials, blinded as you are by your own light, will never understand. This device will change that, as soon as it's completed, and the corruption will burn away from within. Now tell me, _how did you disable it_?"

The air was already growing steadily colder, each breath thinner and harder to draw in. Jim could feel his fingertips numbing, his head swimming dizzily as he struggled to think, but it could have been the panic rather than the lack of oxygen that made his voice shake as he began, “I-”

“Jim, don’t,” McCoy warned.

“Four minutes, Captain. You will lose consciousness in two minutes. I propose that you speak quickly while you still can.”

Jim stared at the screen helplessly, felt himself beginning to fall apart. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t let his crew die for this, but if that bomb was perfected….

He tried to speak, then coughed, his lungs straining for oxygen that was swiftly disappearing. There was a thin sheen of ice forming on the consoles, his breath pluming white in the freezing air.

"Three minutes."

"Captain," Spock said, his voice slightly strained as he struggled against the plummeting temperatures. "Do not-"

There was a dull thump, and Jim turned to see Chekov slumped over his console, shaking uncontrollably.

“Bones-” He looked over to see the doctor bend over, hands on his knees as he wheezed for air. “Bones!”

“Jim…”

“Two minutes.”

His vision was flickering, hazy and blurry at the edges where blackness threatened to overwhelm him. He felt his knees meet the floor, but couldn't remember falling. He was so cold….he couldn't breathe-

“It’s a shame,” the terrorist said, his voice distant and echoing, and he almost sounded disappointed. “I thought more of you.”

Jim lifted his head with difficulty. He could see his crew suffering under the effects of the system failure, some shivering and some ominously still. He caught a glimpse of steely eyes before the screen once more, and struggled to say one last thing, one final shot, his lips numb- then the screen went abruptly black, as if to spite his efforts.

So this was it, Jim thought, as he gasped for air. After all this time….this would be it. He took one last breath, then paused suddenly, blinking.

He could breathe.

Pins and needles laced his fingers as the circulation gradually returned to them, the tightness in his chest dissipating as he took another breath, then another.

“The life support system is back online, Captain,” Spock was the first to say, sounding not a little breathless himself as he reached over to steady McCoy.

Jim looked around, dazed, as his crew began to stir, the layer of frost on the consoles slowly melting away, leaving behind a glistening sheen of condensation as the climate controls were reestablished. He was relieved to see that everyone seemed to be conscious, if a little shaken and groggy from the whole ordeal.

“Uhura…” he rasped, when he finally found his voice, pushing himself shakily onto his feet. “The systems.”

"Yes, sir." She reached for her headset with trembling fingers, flipping at the switches on her console.

Suddenly, she froze, her eyes flicking across her monitors in bewilderment. "Captain, the terrorist- Cetus…"

“What is it?” Jim demanded, instantly back on alert. “Is he back?”

“No, Captain, that’s just it. He’s….he’s gone.”

“He’s gone?” Jim repeated disbelievingly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Uhura shook her head helplessly. “Our system’s clear, Captain, our control’s been reinstated. The life support, communications….he’s just...I can’t explain it.”

Jim frowned, still suspicious. “Keep running scans. _Something_ cleared him from our systems and I want to know what.”

“Yes, sir, I-” She cut off abruptly, her hand pressed to her headset in confusion. “Captain, we’re receiving another transmission.”

Jim swore under his breath, then started as Spock touched his arm lightly to get his attention. "Captain, it is likely that whoever cleared the terrorists' influence from our systems is now attempting to contact us," he said quietly.

“I’ve taken that into consideration, Mr. Spock,” he said shortly, “and I’ve come to a decision. Patch it through, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

McCoy moved to intercept Jim as he headed for the command chair, stepping bodily into his path. “Jim, this whole thing could turn south. Whoever this is, they can’t be good news.”

Jim brushed past him impatiently, settling down in his seat. “Can’t be worse than that nutcase, Bones. I think I’ll take my chances.”

"You honestly think a Good Samaritan would pluck those terrorists out of our system from the goodness of their hearts? These people could be _worse_ , for all we-"

“Patching through now, Captain,” Uhura interrupted. All eyes turned towards the screen as it fizzled and sparked into focus, but instead of a face appearing as he had expected, a concise body of white text scrolled across the black background from right to left in plain typeface.

Africa. South America.

 _No. It couldn’t be_. He saw Spock stiffen slightly out of the corner of his eye.

Europe. North America. Australia.

There was a brief pause, and Jim was suddenly aware that he had stopped breathing. Then, one final word.

Perseus.


	7. Chapter 7

_“Patching through now, Captain,” Uhura interrupted. All eyes turned towards the screen as it fizzled and sparked into focus, but instead of a face appearing as he had expected, a concise body of white text scrolled across the black background from right to left in plain typeface._

_Africa. South America._

_No. It couldn’t be. He saw Spock stiffen slightly out of the corner of his eye._

_Europe. North America. Australia._

_There was a brief pause, and Jim was suddenly aware that he had stopped breathing. Then, one final word._

..

Jim stared blankly at the screen, a strange ringing permeating his ears. He was suddenly dizzy, his heart racing in his chest, and it was a second before he could begin to talk himself into breathing. In the end, he only managed to do so with difficulty, his throat closing reflexively as he tried to inhale.

"Captain?" Spock's voice seemed to come from somewhere distant, a trace of concern detectable within his usually calm tone.

Jim blinked hard, forcing himself to snap out of it, and pushed himself out of his chair. “I- I need to go-”

“Jim?” McCoy was in his way again, and Jim stumbled around him.

“Mr. Spock, you have the conn,” he managed to remember, before swiftly exiting the bridge.

After a few seconds, the crew finally dared to turn towards each other, looking anxiously in the direction of their departed captain. Spock stared consideringly at the closed doors, then cast a sideways glance at McCoy, who looked back with an expression of unmasked concern.

A moment later, the Vulcan gave a determined nod, and turned his head towards their navigator pointedly. "Mr. Chekov, you have the conn."

…

Jim broke the seal off the bottle of whiskey, hefting it thoughtfully in his hand. He had been saving it for a special occasion, but now he found that he could hardly care less. He poured himself a generous portion, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass with a strange numbness, then tipped the bottle once more and topped off the glass before picking it up. His quarters were silent, echoing the heavy hollowness that now resided in his chest, and even his heartbeat seemed to be reduced to nothing more than a dull ache.

He tilted his head back and downed half the glass in two swallows, grimacing slightly as the whiskey burned a trail down to his stomach.

There was a buzz at his door and he ignored it, taking another gulp and blinking as his eyes watered. Another insistent buzz, and he unlocked the doors with an impatient gesture, downing the rest of his drink and reaching for the bottle again.

McCoy and Spock strode in, the doctor leading the way and stopping short when he saw Jim pouring steadily into his glass. “Jim-”

“Not a good time, Bones,” he rasped mindlessly, feeling the warmth of the alcohol gradually settle in.

“What was that all about up there? You ran off like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Jim mumbled, and he raised the glass again. 

McCoy reached out and caught the back of his wrist, lowering his hand back down to the table. "Easy there," he said warningly.

Jim stared wordlessly down at the table, blinking at the steady pressure of McCoy's fingers, and said nothing. After another moment of silence, the doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Jim...about that recording..."

“Don’t we have more pressing matters to discuss, Bones?” Jim interrupted, more sharply than he had intended.

McCoy frowned defensively. "I was just going to say, if you need someone to talk to about this, then, you know. We're here. When and if you're ready. That's all."

Jim shook his head once, but it seemed like a more automatic response than an intentional gesture, and pulled his hand away from McCoy’s abruptly, taking the glass with him. “You know something, Bones?” he asked, with a disarming casualness.

“What, Jim?” McCoy replied warily. Jim stared at him, feeling a peculiar buzz in his veins. He wasn’t drunk at all, by any means, but it was as though something in him had finally snapped and he was watching everything happen through a distant haze.

"I never cried after I heard my mother was dead, you know that? Not once. Not at her funeral...not even when I was on my own." He fell silent, watching them take it in, Spock blinking slowly and McCoy looking slightly taken aback.

“Jim…”

Jim pointed at Spock with his newly filled glass, feeling oddly careless as he stared at the Vulcan. “He knows.” He turned his head to regard McCoy again. “But you don’t. Well, you do now, of course.” He shrugged and raised his glass to his lips, then paused, gazing into the shimmering liquid as something nudged vaguely at his consciousness. “You think that makes me a bad son?” Without waiting for an answer, he tipped his head and drained half the whiskey in one go, swaying slightly at the surge of lightheadedness that followed.

When he looked up again, he found that Spock was staring at him, and there was something oddly exposed about his expression that Jim couldn’t quite identify.

“I think that’s enough now, kid,” McCoy said firmly, stepping forward and reaching for the drink.

Jim stiffened, then suddenly threw the glass at the wall in frustration. It shattered with a crash, and he watched with a twinge of satisfaction as the amber liquid gradually made its way down the wall, trickling among the broken shards. “Don’t you get it? I felt _nothing_ -” His voice broke, and he stared at the wall in silence. “Until I heard th-that recording. And I heard her voice...what she said…”

“The message in the last transmission,” Spock said suddenly, his voice carefully neutral. “You are aware of its implications, I believe.”

Jim turned, his gaze flicking to McCoy before settling on his first officer warningly.

“The code,” Spock continued. “I do not recall ‘Perseus’ as a key phrase.”

“It’s not,” Jim muttered distractedly, running a hand through his hair.

“What code?” McCoy demanded. “Will someone just-”

Spock silenced him with a single look as Jim turned, glancing at the globe sitting innocuously on the table behind him. He felt almost eerily calm, now that he knew what he had to do. After all, the only way to find out for sure was to try.

He hadn’t personally touched the thing in months, and he traced the edges of the continents hesitantly with a fingertip. The pattern came easily to him, a part of his childhood that had never gone away, and he spun the globe with a casual flick, pressing his fingers against the smooth surface.

Africa. South America. Europe. North America. Australia.

The globe split, the stars pouring out, and Jim quickly realized, as the vast universe filled his quarters once again, that he would never tire of the sight. It didn't matter that Spock had unlocked the globe only hours ago, the nostalgia hit hard every time. The familiar swirls and galaxies spiraled out around him, pulled by their constant orbits. He remembered each of them, could even name them all at one point-

There was a sudden intake of air from McCoy, and Jim looked over in time to see an overzealous planet spin swiftly past the doctor's head and circle the ceiling effortlessly. He watched with a hint of amusement at the pure awe evident in his friend's expression, the man turning in place as he struggled to take it all in.

"Jim...this is incredible," McCoy eventually breathed. "Where did you...?"

"My mother," he murmured, a cold edge slicing into his chest as he spoke.

Perseus. He didn't think she would have remembered.

_"Which one's that?"_

_Her larger hand enveloped his smaller one, guiding it across the glossy page. "That's Perseus, Jimmy."_

_"What's a Per...per..."_

_"Perseus," she repeated, a laugh in her voice, her golden hair brushing his cheek as she leaned over him. "The Hero.”_

"The Hero," he muttered absently under his breath. A star crossed his vision, white and glowing, and he stared at it before it eventually drifted off. That had been one of the good days, one of the better memories he had of her, but that had all been before she started leaving again.

_"Mom, don't go!"_

_"Jimmy, honey..." She bent and untangled his hands from her skirt, wiping gently at his teary face. "I'll be back in a week, baby, I promise."_

_"But I'll miss you."_

_“I won't be gone. Not really. I'll be in the stars, remember?" She smiled at him. "With Perseus. He's your favorite, right?"_

"-Jim."

He blinked hard and turned, catching Spock's and McCoy's gazes across the glittering expanse. His lower lip stung, the sharp taste of copper bursting on his tongue, and he frowned when he realized he had bitten himself inadvertently. He reached up, wiping away the smear of blood on the back of his hand, only to see Spock staring at him with a knowing look.

Jim glanced away swiftly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his lip. "The stars." he said instead, his mind struggling to make the connection that he knew was there. "He was my favorite."

"Favorite _what_?" McCoy asked anxiously, flinching as a supernova flared too close to his face.

"A constellation," Spock realized first.

Another star whirled by, caught by the gravity of a black hole, and Jim found himself staring at it as it twisted and vanished. “Perseus,” he said quietly, his voice resounding strangely among the swirling galaxies.

The universe abruptly shuddered around him, every star halting instantly as if frozen in place. McCoy let out an exclamation of shock, stumbling backwards towards Spock and cursing when the Vulcan stepped away neatly to avoid him.

Jim felt more than a little disoriented himself as he looked dazedly around at the specks of color and light illuminating the air. A small maroon planet in front of him caught his eye, its pale blue rings tilted mid revolution. He extended a hand warily, expecting his fingers to pass through the orb, but to his surprise, there was a slight resistance against his skin and a faint tingling of energy before the planet suddenly burst like a soap bubble and disappeared.

As if the motion had triggered a chain reaction, the other planets began gradually disappearing, shrinking in on themselves rapidly and blinking away.

"Fascinating," Jim thought he heard Spock murmur as he cast an interested gaze at the vanishing spheres. Then, finally, only one planet remained, hovering halfway between Jim and McCoy at waist level.

It was a rusty shade of red, a single dust ring glittering faintly around its middle. Jim walked to it slowly, realizing with a bitter twist of irony that it was the same abandoned planet they had left three days ago. He recognized the deep whorls of crimson duststorms traversing slowly across the planet's surface, the two moons circling leisurely around the sphere. But there was something new, a white spot of light, pulsing in concentric ripples, and there was no doubt in his mind as to its meaning.

_“I won’t be gone. Not really.”_

"Here," he whispered as his throat tightened, his composure feeling precariously close to shattering under the sudden onslaught of emotions. He touched the planet lightly, and the image trembled beneath his fingertips. "She's here."

"Who?" McCoy asked tentatively.

"My mother," Jim replied, his words ringing oddly as he spoke.

“Jim,” McCoy said, seeming reluctant to intrude, but determined in his own way. “I thought you said your mother-”

“She was cremated,” Jim said absently, predicting McCoy's inevitable question. “There was no body at the funeral.”

“Do you….do you think maybe she…?” McCoy trailed off awkwardly.

Jim looked up at him slowly. “What?”

Spock stepped forward as McCoy flailed silently. “Captain, the transmission could only have been sent by an individual who removed Cetus from our systems, someone who also knew the codes for the globe. Our best course of action would be to set a course for the coordinates-"

“Don’t,” Jim cut him off automatically, shaking his head. “Not yet. Let's...let's not jump to any conclusions, all right?”

“It is a logical assumption,” Spock continued on determinedly. “The location indicated by the signal is within one hundred kilometers of the terrorist base where you were previously held. You cannot deny the coincidence.”

“No.” He needed to say it, needed to believe it just as desperately as he’d hoped he had been wrong about the code. When Spock didn’t reply, Jim moved to turn off the globe, clicking the panels back into place and watching as the planet dissipated and vanished. As the last curls of light disappeared, he sank down into the chair behind him and lowered his head into his hands.

“Jim,” Spock said after some time, his voice low, and Jim ignored him, trying to will away the headache forming behind his eyes. “We cannot put off this discussion. It is imperative that we reach a decision swiftly.”

Jim finally looked up at him, a muscle in his jaw working tensely. "So what are you suggesting?”

Spock eyed him carefully for a moment before answering, his shoulders tensing as he locked his hands behind his back. “I would advise that, given the possibilities regarding the situation, you do not allow your emotions to overwhelm you, Captain.”

Jim stared at him, his breathing growing ragged as he struggled to contain his anger. “Spare me the half-assed Vulcan logic, Spock. You’re telling me that I haven’t thought this through? That I’m too blinded by _emotion_ to see what’s going on here?”

McCoy tried to interject, “Jim, that’s not-”

“It was not my intention to imply so,” Spock snapped, his own voice hardening slightly. “However, no matter what feelings you hold towards the matter, you must still be willing to see the possibility that what you believe you know about your mother may not be as it appears.”

“Just say it!” Jim shouted, his voice cracking with the force of his rage as he jumped to his feet. “I know you want to, damn it, so stop with the _sympathy_ ,” he spat out the last word, barely aware that McCoy was watching him with deep concern, or that Spock had gone still with shock or fury, “and just tell me!”

There was an icy silence that nobody seemed willing to shatter, Jim breathing heavily as he tried to rein himself back in. His heart hurt, and he wavered as he realized that there was nothing reassuring or safe about this pain.

"Very well," Spock said finally, his voice clinical and detached. "There is an undeniable possibility that your mother is affiliated with the terrorists, Jim, this much is evident. If she is still alive, as the evidence suggests, you must consider the legal implications."

McCoy shot Spock a vaguely disapproving glance, brows drawing together in a frown as Jim clenched his fists.

"She wouldn't," Jim said, his voice resolute. "I know her, Spock."

The Vulcan looked at him oddly, and Jim raised his chin defensively. “What?”

"I know you, Jim," Spock responded assuredly, "and I have seen her through your eyes. Can you truthfully claim, despite living without her for the majority of your life, that you knew Winona Kirk at all?"

There was another pause, Jim's expression flickering uncertainly as he struggled to reply. "If you think-" he said heatedly, but then stopped, a trace of hurt crossing his face as he realized there was nothing he could say. Beside him, McCoy looked incredulously at the Vulcan before returning his attention to Jim.

"We're finished here," Jim said at last with a weary edge to his voice. He hesitated, eyes wandering to the globe one final time, and turned towards the doors purposefully.

McCoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Where are you going?”

“The bridge. I’ve got work to do.” He tried to make the words casual and was dimly aware of the telling tension in his voice.

Jim strode down the corridor, distantly acknowledging the flurry of footsteps behind him as Spock and McCoy followed him from his quarters. He reached the turbolift just as they caught up and turned, his expression carefully composed. Spock appeared to be somewhat conflicted, if the rigidness of his already stoic expression was any indication, and McCoy looked intensely exasperated by the whole situation, still breathing hard from their sprint down the corridor.

The lift started in silence, Jim's eyes fixed steadily ahead of him when he eventually spoke, "Send a report to Starfleet, Spock, detailing the recent events concerning Cetus. They're bound to have a file on that bastard."

"Yes, Captain," Spock said shortly.

"And..." Jim hesitated, glancing sidelong at Spock with a touch of discomfort. "Don't mention...Perseus. Not yet."

Spock stared at him silently, a gleam of disapproval in his eyes, and Jim sharpened his voice. “That’s an order, Commander. Unless, of course, you feel the need to ignore this one, too. Seeing as you know all about me now.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Spock's eyes narrowed and he moved his hand to the control panel, halting the lift in place.

McCoy grunted in surprise, just as taken aback by the gesture as Jim, who groaned in frustration as he turned impatiently towards the Vulcan. "You can't be serious," he protested.

“On the contrary, Captain, this is a very serious matter," Spock replied curtly.

Jim stepped back defensively, suddenly aware of how small the confines of the lift were and how close the two other men were standing to him. “Okay, this thing really shouldn’t be _this_ easy to stop-”

"Jim, I believe that an apology is in order," Spock interjected, meeting his captain's gaze insistently to ensure that he had his full attention before proceeding. "I apologize for transgressing upon your privacy, despite the fact that the fault lies entirely within the parameters of your own actions, and therefore your recent antagonistic behavior towards me is nothing if not hypocritical in nature."

There was a short pause, during which Jim gaped in incredulity for several seconds and McCoy looked as if he was unsuccessfully trying to stifle a smirk. "You call that an apology?" Jim finally asked.

Spock’s eye twitched imperceptibly, his chin tilting slightly upwards as he spoke, "Need I remind you, Captain, that it was neither my idea nor intent to initiate _cardiopulmonary resuscitation_ while you remained conscious?”

Jim glared, feeling a strain of exasperation. "Well, if it was such a terrible idea, why the hell did you go along with it?"

"It was to my understanding that there is a certain degree of trust in friendship, though perhaps you have yet to grasp it even now." While Jim registered the barb, Spock merely continued, "I allowed the plan to proceed, Jim, because I trusted that you were aware of your limits, but you are sorely mistaken if you believe that I am capable of enduring the sight of you in pain."

McCoy looked more shellshocked than amused now, glancing between the two of them nervously. Jim stared at his first officer, dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth uncertainly, then opening it again with renewed determination.

“You’re right.”

Spock visibly restrained his already prepared retaliation and blinked rapidly, giving him a peculiar look.

Jim squinted at him self-consciously, feeling a slow flush rising in his face from the scrutinization. “What?”

"I...I admit that I did not expect you to concede so easily," Spock said slowly, still eyeing him doubtfully.

Jim scowled reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, yeah, I get that I can be a real ass sometimes, all right?”

“That ain’t the half of it,” McCoy muttered.

Jim glared at him irritably, but not completely without affection. “I’m saying that it was wrong of me to ask that much from you down there."

"So was it worth it?" McCoy suddenly asked, his expression oddly intent. "Did staying conscious help you..." The doctor frowned, searching for an appropriate description, "...ground yourself?"

Jim blinked slowly, suspicion seeping at the edges of his mind, but he answered honestly, "Hurt like hell....but, yeah, it did."

McCoy studied him for a moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusions he had drawn.

"Still," Jim added, his eyes narrowing as he looked back at Spock, "it still doesn't change the fact that you know things about me that I've never told anyone. And for that reason, I'm still pissed."

Spock seemed to consider this carefully before responding, "I understand that the consequences of the meld are far less than desirable, Captain, though I cannot say with complete confidence, considering the circumstances, that I regret my decision."

"What's he talking about?" McCoy demanded suspiciously.

Jim acknowledged him with a quick glance before returning his attention to his first officer. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're totally fine with this. I've got your memories up here, too, remember?"

"I admit that I do find it disconcerting," Spock responded, "however, it is not completely without its advantages."

"Hold on." McCoy looked between them blankly. "Memories?"

"You have only fixated on the negative aspects of such an exchange, Jim, without consideration of the potential benefits," Spock continued, disregarding the doctor.

Jim scowled belligerently. "What's there to be positive about? I've got a right to my own privacy, Spock-"

"Wait, are you two talking about that mind meld? What-"

"Later, Bones," Jim said forcefully, still glaring at Spock.

McCoy looked exceedingly frustrated. "Yeah, like that's not the first promise you've made-"

"Doctor," Spock broke in quietly, and he looked directly at McCoy for the first time during the exchange. "I assure you, this will all be explained to you at a more prudent time."

McCoy's frown deepened, but he subsided reluctantly, settling back against the wall and crossing his arms.

Spock hesitated, looking back at Jim. "While the situation is less than ideal, I believe it is in our shared interest to exploit it for, if nothing else, practical means. With some understanding of the other's background, it is likely that an increase of sixty percent in the efficiency of our professional rapport can occur."

Jim scoffed dismissively. "You know, there are seminars for this kind of thing that don't require intensive brain-diving."

Spock gave him a look that spoke volumes on how thoroughly he saw through Jim’s blustering. “As I was saying, there are other advantages to this situation. As you have thus far refused to discuss the planetside events with either myself or Dr. McCoy, I am now able to glean somewhat of an understanding as to the reasons why you feel the need to avoid the subject. I cannot help but find myself concerned that you are attempting to suppress-”

“Suppress,” Jim repeated, giving a short, mirthless laugh. “Like you’re one to talk. You think meditation can help with something like this?”

“To be fair, Captain,” Spock answered evenly, “you display multiple unhealthy tendencies yourself, based on the current circumstances.”

“You’re not,” Jim said tiredly, his voice lowered consciously, “responsible for me. Not like that, Spock. Even if you’re right...I don’t need you to worry about me.”

"Because you can take care of yourself, is that it?" McCoy cut in suddenly. "Hell, that's what you've done your whole life, isn't it?

"And so what if it is?" Jim retorted defiantly.

"You need to know you're not alone anymore, Jim." McCoy stepped closer, looking at him intently. "And whatever you're dragging yourself through now….you don't gotta do it on your own."

Jim remained silent, searching McCoy's expression for a long moment before looking away, giving a low huff of empty amusement in reply.

There was a long pause before any of them spoke again, and it was Spock who eventually broke the silence, encouraged by a slight nod from McCoy. "I trust that you will make the correct decision, Captain," he said, with a certainty that Jim found he couldn't dispute. He glanced up subtly at his first officer, then gave a silent nod and looked away again. Spock hesitated, watching him momentarily before reaching out and starting the lift once more.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, Jim staring contemplatively at the floor. The doors opened onto the bridge, and Spock moved to walk past Jim, who found himself suddenly saying, "Wait."

His first officer paused and looked up at him expectantly. Jim cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I never did say....well, thank you. Both of you. For saving my life."

There was a moment in which McCoy and Spock blinked at him, then glanced at each other, before the doctor finally spoke, a wry smile twitching at his lips, "Seems to me that we're making a habit out of it these days, don't you think?"

Jim couldn't help the surge of relief he felt at those casual words. "Gotta keep you on your toes, Bones. We can't have you getting rusty on us."

Accompanied by McCoy's indignant splutters, Jim turned and strode onto the bridge, settling himself down in his chair with a casual familiarity. There was movement at the corner of his eye as Spock returned to his station, and he turned to meet his first officer's gaze, holding it for a thoughtful moment. Then, he gave a small nod, seemingly to himself, and swiveled back to face the front.

"Mr. Sulu!"

The pilot turned expectantly. "Yes, Captain."

"Prepare to set a new course," Jim responded, his voice strengthened by new resolve. "I've got some coordinates for you."

 


	8. Chapter 8

The _Enterprise_ would be in position for the shuttle launch in sixteen minutes. The arrangements for the venture were well under way, and Jim had gladly left the red-clad engineers to the task of installing every safeguard measure into the vessel they could before the ship was in place. He had relocated to his quarters instead for a change of clothes and a moment of mental preparation, the latter swiftly becoming more difficult than he had imagined.

Jim stared at the wall blankly, noting with a faint sense of guilt that someone had cleaned up the mess he had made earlier with the whiskey. The bottle was gone, as well, and he suspected that either McCoy or Spock had removed it from his quarters at some point. They were annoying like that, his best friends, but he really had no idea how he'd get along without them keeping him on the right track. He scowled ruefully at the patch of empty carpet where the puddle had been, briefly regretting the burst of temper that had caused it, and turned his head to contemplate the globe.

He had sent Spock to organize the details of the landing and McCoy had bustled off to the medbay to prepare for the "harebrained jaunt on that death trap- and I'll never go anywhere without a cardiostimulator again, you hear," leaving him alone to his own thoughts.

Opening the globe had been easier the second time around, without the pressure of additional onlookers, and he now stared at the revolving red planet with the ever-flashing marker on its surface. The rest of the stars hadn't reappeared, and he wondered belatedly if triggering the Perseus code had caused an irreversible effect on the globe's programming. It'd be a shame; he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed-

Well, perhaps he wasn't quite ready to think about that yet. Jim stood from where he had been seated on his bed and crossed the room to look down at the planet. He fancied that the beacon pulsed faster and brighter the closer the ship approached their destination. The hologram shivered as he passed a distracted hand through it, and he slashed through the planet vindictively before moving to close the globe.

" _Captain_ ," his wall comm crackled. " _Bridge to Captain Kirk._ "

"Kirk here," he said absently.

" _Approaching destination, sir,”_ Sulu continued. “ _ETA is ten minutes_."

"All right. Have Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy meet me in the hangar."

" _Yes, sir_."

Jim signed off the comm and checked his phaser holster before turning to survey his quarters one last time, shrugging on his dark leather jacket and giving it an absent tug. Everything in the room looked to be in order, everything neat and tucked away, and he left with only a vague sense of unease that he couldn't quite place.

The corridors were conspicuously void of off-duty crew members as he headed down through the mess and recreation levels, and he could hardly blame them. Any sane person would be doing the same after the scare with the life support and Cetus, which told him nothing about himself that he didn't already suspect.

He had met with Spock, McCoy, and a few other members of the senior crew in the Briefing Room to settle the details of the landing a couple of hours earlier. It would be night by the time they arrived, and so they had arranged for more climate-appropriate civilian gear. They would be taking a shuttle down to the surface, "in case your comms gets jammed by more ravin' madmen, sir," Scotty had reasoned pointedly, "We wouldn't want you stranded again."

This time, McCoy had also insisted that they be accompanied by two security detail, and Jim couldn't really find it in him to argue. He remembered all too well the humiliating ease with which he had been captured before.

Scotty was already running through the final diagnostics for the launch when Jim arrived at the hangar, tossing off a cheeky salute in his general direction. “She’s up and runnin’, Captain. Ready at your command.”

Jim gave him a halfhearted smile. “Thanks, Scotty.” He turned, glancing around the spacious shuttle bay. The two security guards were chatting quietly by the shuttle, Burns and Giles, he thought vaguely. Good men, handy in a pinch and good with following orders. Spock was impeccably early, of course, tapping away at a datapad beside the short gangway and looking paler than usual in the dark clothing the prep team had acquired for them. “Where’s…”

Jim trailed off as McCoy stumbled into view, dressed in the same layered, protective civvies as Jim and Spock. It wasn't his new wardrobe that had Jim gawking disbelievingly, however, as the doctor staggered towards them. It was, rather, what he was attempting to carry with him. "Seriously, Bones?" he asked incredulously, exasperation mingling with affection.

McCoy squinted at him around the massive medical pack in his arms with a slightly hysterical gleam in his eyes. "You think I want to chance going through cardiovascular hell with you unprepared again? A man could go mad from that kind of stress."

“Evidently,” Spock murmured, without taking his eyes off his PADD.

Jim blinked, thrown off guard for a moment, then shook his head and gestured at the pack helplessly. “I get the cardiostimulator, but what’s all _this_? You got a defibrillator stuffed in there too?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Come on, that’s not really necessary-”

“Clearly, it is, Jim, if I’m gonna be tagging along with _you_ ,” McCoy said slowly, as if Jim was missing the obvious. “And what the hell are we wearing, anyway?” He glared down at himself, clearly uncomfortable in his own attire, then squinted at Spock. “Makes you look like a ghoul.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “It’s negative nine degrees Celsius down there, Bones. And we don’t want any deranged megalomaniacs snatching us up again as soon as they spot our uniforms, do we? And you don’t look that bad, honestly.” He smirked, giving McCoy a deliberate once-over. “Like an advertisement for how-not-to-dress-in-your-thirties.”

McCoy scoffed, "You’re one to talk, Mr. James Dean over there.”

“Who the hell is-”

“I don’t think it suits you,” McCoy interrupted, shuffling his bag in his arms awkwardly and giving Jim a carefully weighted look. “And I’m sure Spock agrees.”

“I fail to understand the relevance of your assessment, Doctor, when it is evident that the captain’s attire is solely intended for practical purposes,” Spock said matter-of-factly, hardly looking up from his PADD.

"Exactly, Spock, _thank_ you," Jim smirked, pointedly zipping up his jacket.

“Yeah, you would say that, you contrary bastard,” McCoy muttered under his breath. “You haven’t even _seen_ him.”

Spock raised an eyebrow in cool acknowledgment of the unspoken challenge and glanced up smoothly over the top of his PADD, scanning Jim with a critical eye.

“Speaking objectively, I believe that the captain possesses several physical traits considered to be aesthetically pleasing among his species. What is already present cannot be so easily detracted from by his mere choice of clothing,” Spock finally said, and looked back down at his work pointedly.

Jim grinned deliberately at McCoy as the doctor scowled at the Vulcan. “Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

“It is only logical to state the truth, Doctor,” Spock responded, glancing at McCoy with a detached sort of amusement. “I find you, for instance, to be somewhat subpar.”

McCoy bristled with exaggerated indignation and Jim looked delighted as the other man intentionally cleared his throat. "And I suppose you're the epitome of Vulcan male perfection yourself?"

"As I am the only one of my particular genetic lineage, I can safely claim that I am indeed the prime example of virility of my race."

Jim let out a startled laugh. “He’s got a point, Bones.”

“I swear, the both of you, one of these days-”

"We're in position now, sir," Scotty called out, then rapped the skull of his assistant with his PADD. "And Berkeley here’s gonna remember the proper disengager this time, wontcha? Ya don't want our beloved captain and co.'s brains turned inside out and liquefied in the great beyond, eh?"

"No, sir," mumbled the unfortunate Berkeley, flushing redder than his shirt as the two engineers headed for the control booth.

Jim cast a final glance at McCoy, who had paled significantly at the engineer's casual words, and moved to mount the gangway. Spock followed behind, ushering the reluctant doctor ahead of him as if wary that the man might make a break for it.

Burns and Giles were already seated at the pilot's helm, swiveling around and doffing salutes that Jim returned distractedly as he looked around at the passenger seats. "They're not so bad, Bones," he said, trying to lift the spirits of his clearly distressed friend. "Better than when we first met, huh?"

"Shut up," McCoy said tersely, stowing his pack into the storage unit beneath his seat and buckling himself into his harness with a grim determination.

Jim buckled himself in across from McCoy, grinning as Spock gingerly seated himself next to the doctor. "The shuttle was half your idea," he felt the need to point out.

"It was a good idea at the time," McCoy muttered, shifting in his seat apprehensively. "If they come at us guns a'blazing, just fly away, right? No need to worry about some damned intern cooling his heels and waiting to disassemble your molecules with the press of a button-" he stopped abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut and looking nauseous as he groped unconsciously for Spock's arm. "Oh, hell."

"Bones, we're still on the _ground_. Well, sort of-"

"Doctor," Spock said dryly, “I assure you that closing your eyes will not delay the inevitable launch of this shuttle."

McCoy pointedly ignored the unusual attempt at sarcasm, eyes remaining stubbornly shut as the final countdown began. After a moment of watching the spectacle, Jim took pity and reached for his inner jacket pocket for what he had taken to fondly thinking of as the Bones Cure-All.

Spock shifted in slight discomfort as McCoy's grip tightened substantially on his forearm.

"Doctor, I would prefer it if you would properly utilize your armrest-"

"Here, Bones." Jim tossed the flask at McCoy and the doctor was startled enough to open his eyes and catch it, releasing Spock automatically. "Just like old times, huh?"

McCoy opened his mouth, but whatever words he might have said were drowned out by the muffled roar of the shuttle's thrusters. The floor shook noticeably, and McCoy abandoned his attempts to open the flask in exchange for resuming his death grip on Spock.

The Vulcan let out a small, almost unnoticeable sigh, but Jim noted with a wry twitch of his lips that he didn't make a move to shake off McCoy.

The shuttle took off smoothly, and Jim watched through the wide windows as they propelled towards the planet below. As the red surface neared, he was suddenly struck with a faint sense of unease, apprehension stirring in his gut as the shuttle veered through the atmosphere. Twisting back in his seat, he caught a glimpse of the silvery hull of his ship through the small rear porthole and repressed the inexplicable urge to order the shuttle around immediately.

He concentrated instead on the incoherent muttering of McCoy, hunched miserably in his seat as he clung to Spock. The Vulcan had an air of long-suffering patience about him, but he held still throughout the launch, and McCoy visibly relaxed his grip in degrees as the shuttle descended into the craggy landscape, the flask lying forgotten in his lap. There was an intent expression on the doctor's face that jogged at Jim's memory then, a distant stare that focused on nothing of this world, and he found himself recalling the last time he'd seen something remotely similar.

_He was sixteen years old, and she was sitting on the porch steps outside. For a moment he thought she was watching the stars, but her head was angled straight ahead. When he sat down beside her, she didn’t turn to look at him, and he realizedwith a lurch in his chest that she wasn’t with him anymore. Hadn’t been for some time, even when she was sitting close enough for him to lean over and brush her shoulder. He didn’t, because he knew as well as she did that it wouldn’t make a difference._

_It was a dry summer night, and he stared up at the silvery sky for a long moment before he finally spoke. “It’s clear out tonight.”_

_“Mm,” she answered absently, and he knew she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe she had. He didn’t know which was worse, and chanced a look at her. She still wasn’t looking at the stars, but she wasn’t looking at him, either, and he couldn’t remember the last time she had truly met his eyes._

"What's with you?" McCoy's voice cut in sharply, and Jim blinked **.** His friend, pale and wan, was squinting at him from across the tight aisle, one hand still clenched around Spock's wrist.

Jim stared at the two of them, and he surprised himself when he finally answered, albeit reluctantly. "She could never really look at them, you know. The stars, I mean. They reminded her too much of him." He felt Spock's eyes on him and looked away towards the window, his lips twisting in a dry, humorless smile. "Hell, I think _I_ reminded her too much of him sometimes."

"Approaching landing coordinates, Captain," Giles called over the back of his seat before either McCoy or Spock could say a word, and Jim acknowledged the alert absently with a shallow nod, anxiety twisting in his chest again despite his attempts to quell it.

The shuttle landed with a jolt- "Hrrrngh," groaned McCoy, fumbling one-handedly for the flask again- and the thrum of the engines quieted as swirling clouds of dust settled on the windows in a thin layer of red.

"We've arrived, sir," Burns said redundantly, and McCoy mumbled something incomprehensible under his breath as he hastily unharnessed himself.

Jim unbuckled his own harness, pulling himself to his feet by the overhead handholds. "Excellent work, gentlemen. You two, secure a ten-meter perimeter around the shuttle. Be on the lookout for potential hostiles."

"Yes, Captain." The two men saluted and went dutifully to the shuttle hatch. Jim blinked as a cold wind swirled through the open hatch, creeping beneath his jacket and sending goosebumps along his arms. He caught a glimpse of moonlit ruins before the hatch closed, shadowy silhouettes touched by silver light. Then, he suddenly felt a staggering blow and halted, raising a hand to his throbbing chest. He hadn't moved, his other hand still gripping the support, and he realized with a tingling of trepidation that he couldn't move even if he tried.

Meanwhile, McCoy was heaving his bag out of the compartment, rummaging within and cataloguing the contents under his breath. Spock was assisting him, patiently holding an array of bulky instruments as the doctor muttered incoherently. At one point, McCoy looked up with intent to say something, then stopped abruptly when his eyes fell on Jim, the crease between his brows deepening in concern.

“Is it getting hot in here?” Jim asked uncertainly, his voice sounding too loud to his own ears. He tugged roughly at his collar, feeling a drop of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. It had been cold just seconds ago, but now flashes of heat gripped him and his skin seemed suddenly too tight.

“Jim?” McCoy asked warily, but his voice was strangely distant… Jim blinked at him bewilderedly, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to say something, anything, to tell McCoy what was happening, and found with rising panic that he couldn’t breathe.

He gave a wheezing cough, dropping his hand to grip the back of his seat for support. Black spots swam at the edge of his vision, a roiling sense of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He felt a hand on his back- McCoy’s- pressing high between the shoulder blades. “Jim? Jim, damn it, you need to calm down. It’s all right- Spock, my tricorder-” There was a brief pause, a distant beeping that Jim barely heard through the sound of his own racing heartbeat, and a dim curse. “Kid, your blood pressure’s going through the roof. You need to _breathe_ , slow down-”

Jim coughed again, his mouth dry and his throat tightening with every second. He still couldn't breathe, couldn’t think straight, and he wondered distantly if he was still even upright. His head was spinning, his pulse telling him that something was wrong, something bad was going to happen-

“Listen, Jim, I’ve got a hypo with me-” Jim shook his head frantically, fingers whitening on the edge of the seat. “I know, Jim, just hear me out,” McCoy said, an edge of sternness entering his voice. “I’ve got a hypo, and it’ll sort you out, but I’m not going to use it. You can do this on your own, kid, I know you can."

Jim gulped for air as his legs threatened to give out from under him. The sound of his gasps filled his ears, harsh and ragged with no real rhythm to speak of-

"Doctor," Spock said suddenly, stepping up to McCoy's side. "If you will allow me." He reached past the doctor without waiting for a response, brushing the man's hand aside and pulling down the zipper of Jim's jacket purposefully. He flipped open the sides of the garment, and Jim flinched slightly in shock as Spock's hand came to rest above his sternum.

McCoy looked on, baffled. "What are you-"

"Please, Doctor, you must trust me," Spock said, giving Jim's chest a firm push. Jim let loose a shuddering gasp, his eyes closing as his muscles began to gradually relax, the pounding of his heart stuttering to a slower tempo. Eventually, his grip on the seat loosened, blood flow resuming where it had previously been cut off, and he exhaled heavily.

"Well, I'll be damned," McCoy muttered, as Spock gave another short push and Jim took another straggling breath, the color slowly returning to his pale face as he calmed. Spock, noting the visible improvement in his condition, made to withdraw, and Jim's hand rose instantly to hold his arm in place, leaning his weight into Spock's palm almost instinctively.

Spock stilled, eyes rising to meet Jim’s gaze inquiringly.

"Wait," Jim rasped in response, his eyes holding an unexpected pleading note. He suddenly hoped he didn't look as helpless as he felt, clinging onto someone else for help in a way that he never had growing up. He tightened his grip unconsciously on Spock's wrist, trying to convey what he couldn't bring himself to say, and, after a considerable pause, Spock inclined his head in a short nod, making no move to pull his hand away.

"As you are aware, Jim, this is not the first time I had assisted you in this manner." Spock eventually spoke, allowing his captain to contemplate his words before continuing, "Perhaps you should-"

"Wait, hold on," McCoy interrupted. "This happened before?"

"Once in the captain's quarters, prior to the hijacking of the ship's systems," Spock answered promptly, before Jim could refute the claim. Jim glared at him disbelievingly, recovered enough by now to be angry.

"Spock, damn it, you promised-"

"I do not believe I made an oath of any sort, Captain, and in any case, these are certainly extenuating circumstances," Spock responded shortly, and Jim stared at him wordlessly for a moment before droppingthe Vulcan's arm, pulling away to lean against the wall defensively.

McCoy scowled, "You know, I’m a doctor for a _reason_ , Jim. You should’ve come to me from the start. Post-traumatic stress disorder's not something you can just- just _shrug_ off, you know!” Jim glanced away with mild guilt, and McCoy sighed, scratching the back of his head in frustration. “Look... whatever Spock just pulled there...you gotta see that that's not normal."

Spock continued on when McCoy seemed to trail off helplessly, "The doctor is correct in his assessment, Captain, however....I believe that recent events indicate that it is not exactly pain which you require."

“What do you mean?” Jim asked tersely.

Spock paused, carefully collecting his thoughts. "On the first occurrence, I suspected that pain was necessary in order to calm your bodily responses to the residuals of the stress it previously received, and I acted accordingly. However, just now, you responded just as positively to a stimulus that should not have elicited any pain." He hesitated before continuing, seemingly weighing his next words. "The fear you felt in the radiation chamber, what drove you to reach out...it was to seek contact, Jim. I see it clearly, perhaps more clearly than yourself, but it is not pain that reassures you. It never has been."

McCoy looked from Spock to Jim with rising confusion and disbelief, though the vague beginnings of comprehension were dawning on his face. Jim stared at Spock, his own uncertainty coming to light. "That doesn't make any sense. I've been touched before, but it didn't...it never felt the same way..."

"I do not wish to speak too freely of the matter at present," Spock broke in quietly, his eyes flickering to McCoy for a split second before returning to Jim warily, "but it is to my understanding that you did not have the kindest of childhoods, Jim. To a child under such circumstances, there is a fine distinction between pain and simple physical contact."

"You said it helped, earlier," McCoy said suddenly. "When I asked if being conscious during the CPR helped. You said yes, and I thought....well, I thought you were a bit touched in the head, to be honest, but I thought it was the pain you needed to...to feel safe, or what have you. But it isn't, is it? You just needed to know we were there with you."

Jim didn't respond, and McCoy worried briefly that he had pushed him too far, that he wasn't ready, but when the kid looked up again, his eyes were calm and resigned. "Even if what you're saying is true, there's nothing I can do about it, is there? I'm screwed up in the head, just like you said, I know that-"

"There's help for this kinda thing, Jim. All you ever had to do was ask." McCoy looked almost hurt before fixing on his customary frown. "We're your friends, aren't we?"

Jim studied him, taking in the doctor's jutted chin and stubborn scowl, then glanced at Spock for a lingering moment before dropping his eyes wryly to the floor, running a hand through his hair. "Well, you're both as crazy as I am, that's for sure. You'd have to be, to stay with me for this long."

McCoy huffed impatiently. "You idiot. The world's not all about you, you know. You ever think that we stick with you because we want to? That we think you're worth roaming the forsaken outreaches of space for because you're you?"

Jim looked away briefly, seeming unconvinced, and after a pause, McCoy's face softened slightly. "You're a good man, Jim," he said quietly. "You think I yell and fret over just anyone? And, hell, you should've seen Spock when we were trying to save you." The Vulcan started and looked strangely at the doctor, but said nothing.

"Spock?" Jim echoed, his eyebrow raising somewhat incredulously.

McCoy glanced at the Vulcan apologetically before he proceeded. "The thing is, he...he wouldn't let you go. And I take back everything I said about him being an unfeeling bastard after seeing him fight for you. He saved your life more than once that day, you know."

Jim looked over at his first officer with mingled disbelief and wonder, and Spock's eyes flicked to him briefly before resuming his valiant efforts to avoid Jim's gaze, despite the light green touching his ears.

McCoy hesitated, and then reached out, cuffing Jim's shoulder gruffly in a familiar gesture. "You're worth it, kid. Trust me."

Jim shook his head brusquely. "No, I....I can't, Bones." His shoulders slumped after the admission, his eyes closing briefly in weariness. "Pain....even if it's not what I need, like you say, it makes me feel...alive. Makes me feel strong, like I'm not a screw-up for once. But if I have to live from day to day needing to be touched like some kind of-" he cut himself off with a distressed grimace. "I can't be like that, Bones. I can't be weak."

"Fear is not a weakness, Jim," Spock said evenly, looking at him with an intent calmness. "It reassures the mind, invokes the survival instinct. Fear in moderation can be controlled."

Jim gave a short burst of mirthless laughter. "I can't _control_ it, Spock. I'm not like you, I can't just turn it on and off-"

"I believe I informed you once that your presumptions on that matter were incorrect when it concerns you," Spock cut in. "Perhaps you should endeavor to remember that."

Jim opened his mouth automatically, then stopped, temporarily stymied. A moment later, there was an abrupt knock on the shuttle hatch that made him flinch and caused McCoy to breathe a hasty curse. "Captain?" Giles' muffled voice rang through. "The perimeter's secure, sir."

"Be right out," Jim responded tensely. He pulled up the zipper to his jacket, concentrating on the feel of metal between his fingers as panic threatened to overwhelm his mind once more. His hand shook, and he forced the tremors to still as he straightened his clothes and took a deep breath.

Spock regarded him evenly for a moment, then reached out almost stiffly and grasped his arm. Despite the awkwardness of the gesture, Jim could feel the waves of buzzing fear and anxiety begin to quell down, receding into tolerable ripples beneath the surface of his mind.

"You don't have to do that, you know," he tried to say lightly. "I know it's not exactly easy for you."

Spock tilted his head slightly. "If my presence is necessary to your well-being, Captain, then naturally I would find no difficulty in the task.”

"That wasn't a challenge, Spock, I'm _serious_ ," Jim responded exasperatedly.

"As am I, Jim," Spock countered.

Jim stared at him for a couple of seconds, then gave a soft snort of amusement. "You know, I never thought I'd actually miss you ignoring me. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to be protective." There was no malice behind his words, though, and the corner of Spock's mouth twitched suspiciously in response.

"Then perhaps initiating friendship with me was not the wisest of your decisions," his first officer agreed solemnly, "as Vulcans' emotions are more amplified than your own."

"What's that mean?"

Spock paused. "It...it is not an aspect of our culture that we find easy to disclose to outsiders, you must understand. The strength of our emotions is what eventually led my people to their suppression. Without proper limitations, the disproportionate intensity would be...destructive to other races than my own.”

“You bond for life, don’t you,” McCoy said, but it wasn’t quite a question. “So when you love, you love deeper. When you feel friendship, you...”

Spock inclined his head reluctantly. “There is an illogical quality to the endurance of the relationships we forge that centuries of technique have been unsuccessful in terminating. As a result, the favor of a Vulcan is difficult to earn, but when it is..." his eyes flitted briefly to the doctor, then settled on Jim, "it is one that is guaranteed to last.”

There was a heavy moment after he finished speaking in which the other two men were notably subdued, McCoy working his jaw with a distinct awkwardness as if restraining himself from making an offhand remark and Jim watching Spock with a quiet thoughtfulness.

The doctor broke the silence first, clearing his throat and fiddling with the straps of his bag. “We should get out there, don’t you think? Might have those two worried, keeping them waiting this long.”

Spock nodded in agreement, and Jim moved past them to open the hatch. The wind caught him off guard instantly, cold tendrils creeping down the back of his collar and tugging at his sleeves. Above them, the sky was dark, the heavy atmosphere too dense to see the stars, and the waning moonlight did little to alleviate the anxiety Jim was still struggling to keep at bay.

The ruins were masked in a deeper, more ominous darkness, crooked shards jutting up from the horizon, and pale shadows flickering eerily on the shifting dust like vanishing ghosts. Jim squinted, shielding his face against a spray of stinging sand as the wind abruptly shifted directions, and joined Burns and Giles by the nose of the shuttle. Giles had his jacket collar turned up against the wind, frowning down at the beeping device in his hand.

"We've got an unidentified object two hundred meters northeast of our location, Captain," the guard said, squinting in the general direction indicated by the radar. "Thought we'd check for confirmation before scoping it out, sir."

"Here, give me that," Jim said tersely, plucking the radar from the man's hand. "You two, guard the shuttle. Any unfriendlies show their faces, you know what to do."

"Yes, sir," came the replies, and Jim gestured for Spock and McCoy to follow before trudging out farther into the clinging darkness.

Nobody spoke as they walked, and Jim was glad for the silence. He listened instead to the crunching of their footsteps, the whistling of wind through broken walls and narrow alleys. Occasionally, there was a scuttle of night life in the ruins that he paid little attention to, focusing more carefully on where he placed his feet on the uneven ground.

The wavering shadows swung elusively before them, disguising the rubble buried in the gentle swells of gathered sand and dust. Jim heard McCoy stumble behind him more than once, usually followed by a muffled curse and the sounds of Spock patiently straightening him, and he felt a faint stir of gratitude for their presence.

The pulsing dot on the radar blanked out every so often when he turned or stopped too abruptly, resulting in the trio moving at a cautious pace through broken arches and fallen towers. Spock resorted to alerting Jim twice to an impending collision with a wall or column, so closely was he watching the screen in his hands.

It wasn't until they were ten meters away that it truly struck Jim what was about to happen. What, he suddenly wondered, was he supposed to say when he saw her? How could simple words explain more than twenty years of despair, wondering if he wasn't good enough, hating himself for being alive because she hated him?

Would she even remember?

He stopped walking. "We're here."

They stood in a small clearing in what might have been a city square of some kind once. There were faded cobblestones underfoot, high craggy walls surrounding them and dark windows peering down like the hollow sockets of the lifeless city. The wind howled distantly through shattered eaves and empty doorways, sending chills down Jim's spine that he realized had little to do with the coldness of the night.

McCoy shuffled his feet, looking around once more uneasily. "Jim...there's nothing here." No one, were the unsaid words.

Jim bit his lip, hope and dread tangling in his chest and tightening his fingers around the device. "No, this is it. This is the place."

"Captain," Spock started, and Jim raised a hand suddenly to stop him.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice hushed.

There was another quiet chirp, and he circled around the crumbled remnants of a lonely fountain. Behind the broken wall sat a small circular machine tucked into the top of a pile of gravel, its sleek black form in complete contrast to its rough surroundings. Jim looked down at it, feeling a pounding of warring emotions in his chest that he couldn't identify.

He dug the device out and held it in his palm. It was heavier than it looked, with a small silver indentation in its center on both sides.

"Jim?" McCoy asked quietly from behind him. Jim wasn't sure what expression he wore now, but he felt…still, frozen, as he turned back towards them.

"Let's go," he said, his voice sounding strangely subdued to his own ears.

"But, what about-"

"She's not here," he said shortly, striding back towards the shuttle. "If she was ever here, she'd be long gone by now."

The device had been covered with a thin film of dust when he picked it up, too much to have accumulated over one night. He hadn't seen this particular model in many years, had actually thought them to be obsolete by now, but he recognized it for the hologram projector that it was.

He felt a dull throb of disappointment, so interlaced with conflicting relief that he was completely uncertain as to what he truly felt. Maybe, Jim thought, he really wasn't ready for it at all. He hefted the disk in his hand absently, suspecting, with the same tangled knot of accompanying emotions, that he would be seeing his mother again in some form or fashion.

And it would be very soon.


	9. Chapter 9

Jim sat in his quarters and looked at the device on the table warily, wondering how such an innocuous object could fill him with such apprehension. The mood aboard the shuttle on the return journey had been notably subdued among the passengers, McCoy clutching grimly to his harness as if determined to not cause a scene again like he had previously. Jim wouldn’t have cared either way, but he appreciated the intention, even if it was misplaced. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even sad.

To be honest, he didn’t know what he was anymore, or if he felt anything at all.

They’d followed him to his quarters once the shuttle arrived, Spock and McCoy, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell them off. They were part of this now, whether he liked it or not.

“What will you tell the crew?” McCoy asked him now, sitting across the table in the center of the main chamber. Spock stood a small distance behind the doctor, hands folded behind his back and dark eyes fixed inscrutably on Jim.

Jim studied the surface of the table in front of him, his eyes skirting around the device avoidingly. “That it was a wild goose chase,” he said finally. “That’s the truth. That’s what I’ll tell them.”

“And Starfleet?” Spock inquired. “The Admiralty has requested an on-screen conference regarding the recent events.”

Jim waved a hand absently. “I’ll work it out with the Admiralty. They can sit on their hands a little longer." He reached out and tapped the device with a finger, sending it spinning slightly. "I'm not sure..." he trailed off, and then he cleared his throat. “I'm not sure if you two should stay for this."

There was a moment of hesitation, both McCoy's and Spock's eyes flitting to the device before the doctor spoke first. "Whatever it is, it's gotta be worth all this trouble. Play the damn thing already."

Jim exhaled slowly, then pressed the silver indentation on the top of the disk. There was a muted beep, a quiet series of clicking and humming from within the device, and when the noises ceased, a thin beam of light expanded from the side of the contraption, widening into the projection of a human silhouette beside the table.

The hologram flickered once, twice, then the figure of Winona Kirk stood before them, her eyes blinking focusedly at the unseen cam.

She looked older, Jim realized with a start, then felt stupid for even thinking it. Of course she was older; it had been years, after all. Her blonde hair was still soft and full, though, despite the gray streaks that ran fluently along her temples. Her face, lined at the corner of her eyes and mouth, seemed to carry a certain weariness that Jim didn't recall ever seeing in her before, no matter how deeply he searched his memory, but she still carried herself the same way, head held high and back straighter than any Vulcan's. Her eyes stared straight ahead, and as a result of the hologram's angle, her gaze seemingly looked into nowhere.

“Jimmy,” she said, and Jim thought with an almost painful note of nostalgia that her voice hadn’t changed at all. “If you’re watching this, there isn't much time."

His fingers were clenched on his knees, and he slowly unlocked them now as she spoke, watching her face with an uneasy twinge of apprehension.

Winona hesitated, her eyes sliding away for a split second before lifting them again, so quickly he wasn't sure if he had imagined it. “I know you’ve met Cetus. I know you’ve seen what he’s capable of doing. I stopped him from destroying your ship once, but I’m not sure that I can do it again." Jim registered her words with a faint feeling of surprise and something else....something that was almost gratitude, but he knew better than that. He couldn't possibly be grateful to her, but if she had saved him....saved his crew.

"He’s brilliant, Jim. Crazy, yes, but brilliant. He’ll have figured it all out by now, I’m sure. We haven’t much time,” she reiterated, “but this story doesn’t begin with Cetus, Jim. It begins with you.”

She paused and blinked once, slowly. “I know you’re angry with me,” she continued, her voice quiet and measured. “That’s understandable. You have every right to be. But I did it for you," she added. "It was all for you, Jim. It always has been."

Jim stiffened involuntarily at that, and he looked down with a flush of self-consciousness, hoping that Spock and McCoy hadn't seen his reaction.

"I'm not proud of who I was all those years ago, Jim. I know..." Winona swallowed, the first discernible sign of emotion she had shown yet. "I know I wasn't....the best mother to you. And for that, I am sorry." Jim raised his eyes disbelievingly, but her gaze looked straight past him as she went on.

"When your father died, Starfleet offered their condolences, sent the cards, paid the bills. It was hard, it was sad, but I had you and I thought it was going to be all right.” Winona took a slow breath and exhaled.

“It wasn’t right, what they did to your father, Jim. How they took his death and played him as a promotional poster. More recruits joined Starfleet that year than any other point in history, did you know that? They were just children.” Her face tightened briefly. “Children who thought they knew what glory and sacrifice and honor looked like, because they saw him die on every broadcast on Earth. You were too young to remember it, but those first few years were the worst, seeing him again in every cadet who enlisted, wanting to be the next George Kirk. But they couldn't live up to that. Nobody could."

Winona stopped again, as if steeling herself for what came next. When she went on, it was hesitant and almost reluctant. "Cetus contacted me when you were three years old. He...he said he was a sympathizer, an ally against the press. He understood, Jimmy, everything he said about Starfleet was what I had already come to believe, and he only made it stronger in my mind. It was weak of me to trust him, but I had no one else. You were too young, the press crawled on my doorstep if I so much as stepped outdoors. There was no one else I could turn to.

"Cetus began trying to involve me in what he called his Revival. Reinstating the old technologies and caste systems in place of the new innovations. I admit, I was interested at first, but there was something...off about him. Something that made me uneasy. But it wasn’t until he began to use you against me that I realized what I had gotten myself into.”

Jim stared at her during the short pause that followed. He thought he vaguely remembered staying indoors all day, wanting to play outside and being gently refused by his mother. Had she been so tired even then? So worn and weary of the world? The Winona he recalled from his childhood was soft and golden, and later, hard and gray. This Winona was somewhere in the middle, a shade he hadn’t come to learn yet, and the not knowing was bothering him. He couldn't bring himself to trust her yet, but if all she was saying was true...

"I couldn't stay, Jim. I knew too much. He didn't expect me to refuse, but he couldn't leave me alive. As long as I was there, you were in danger. I...I wasn't strong enough to stay with you. I had to leave.” Her hands clasped at the folds of her dark skirt distractedly. “So I did. I joined the Revival and tried to keep my head down, tried to keep them from you.

“It hasn’t been easy, staying away….I saw the news from Earth about those Romulans. And the incident from last year. I want you to know...well, that’s not a conversation for now.” As she spoke, Winona ran a hand through her hair in a motion that seemed oddly familiar to Jim; he frowned and tried to ignore it.

“But then I had to find you. This organization, Jim, the Revival. They’ve been developing a device, a weapon, one that I know you're all too familiar with. When Cetus contacted you, he knew fully well how you survived; there were transmitters in the bomb that looped constant feedback to him as you disabled it. He was only testing your resolve, see what you would do. And now that he knows….you’re in far greater danger than you think, Jim. I'm still not sure myself how you managed to pull that one off, but then again, I should have expected it from you." She offered a faint smile that wrenched at his heart, just another phantom pain that he couldn't explain, before the brief flicker of pride faded and the solemnity returned and she said, "They intend to utilize it in three days in a public setting in the heart of Starfleet’s elite.”

Three days. Jim’s mind flitted ahead, trying to conjure up significant events, important dates-

"The _Kelvin_ Memorial, Jim. There's going to be an attack during the Remembrance Day ceremony."

Jim glanced automatically at Spock and McCoy, startled at the revelation, as Winona continued, "The initial distress call was sent to lure in any nearby Federation ships. You were the first to respond and so they took you as an experiment. And the bomb didn't go off, the device failed, but I didn't know, Jim." She suddenly seemed desperate in her emphasis, taking an involuntary step closer towards the cam. "I didn't know what they were planning. I don't think Cetus ever completely trusted me since I joined, he told me enough to keep up the pretense, but… well, I suppose I proved him right by leaving as soon as I found out you had escaped."

"They'll be after me now- I took all the plans I could discover about the strike and ran." She took a deep breath, and there was a sharper, clearer glint to her eyes when she started again. "Three days, Jim. Cetus and a team of his best will be at the ceremony with the bomb. They plan to end their lives there and strike at the heart of Starfleet. 'Purified from the inside out,' was what he said." She stared imploringly into the cam. "You have to stop them, Jim. I wish..." A hesitation, a flicker of emotion beneath the surface. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."

The hologram halted, Winona's last wistful smile frozen momentarily, before the image collapsed in on itself and the beam of light retracted back into the device. The disk hummed a second longer, then dimmed and eventually powered down.

The room was silent, and the sound of Jim pushing himself abruptly to his feet rustled loudly in the still ambiance. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, and whether he was addressing the two of them or himself, Spock was unsure.

“Why’s that?” McCoy eventually asked a beat later, watching him cautiously.

"It's a set-up," Jim said finally, looking over at the two of them. "It's got to be. There's no way everything's that coincidental- the bomb, Cetus, now _her_ -"

"There is no reason to assume that this is a ruse," Spock felt obliged to comment at this point. "Cetus himself mentioned the _Kelvin_ incident when he was divulging his motivations."

Jim scowled, pacing back and forth uncertainly. "They're both in on it, then. She claimed that she left the Revival, but what if she didn't? What if-"

"It is unlikely that either Cetus or your mother would have contacted this ship in order to deceive us in some way," Spock reasoned. "What benefit could possibly arise from unnecessarily compromising themselves by opening communications-"

"I'm just trying to look at this logically," Jim cut in, glaring at the Vulcan in frustration. "Trying to be practical. Isn't that what you'd do? Look at all possible sides of this?"

"If you are attempting to consider all the options, you are failing," Spock said quietly, and Jim's angry retort seemed to die in his throat. He closed his mouth and stared at his first officer, his expression unreadable.

Spock went on intently, "You are not operating on logic now, Jim, or you would not be so adamant in your mother's ill intentions." He hesitated, watching Jim carefully as he continued, "I cannot keep from noticing that you have not yet addressed her as your mother, Jim. Could it be that you are refusing to believe her trustworthy because-"

"Spock," McCoy finally broke in, his voice hushed, and the Vulcan halted for a split second before forging on determinedly. "Perhaps she merely intends to reconcile with you after all these years."

Jim snorted derisively, "Is that what you think this is?" A slow flush was beginning to darken his face as he spoke. "Just like you reconciled with your mother, right?"

Spock blinked, briefly thrown off guard by the unexpected jab.

Jim stepped closer, his eyes beginning to gleam with a strange satisfaction. Behind him, McCoy was watching with caution, his attention flickering between the two of them nervously as Jim said, "I remember her now, you know. From your memories, even if it's just bits and pieces. I remember how human she was, Spock, and how much you tried to be like that, to be like her."

Spock blinked again, attempting to speak, and McCoy raised his voice warningly, "Jim."

Jim forged on unrelentingly, “You wanted to be human so you wouldn’t disappoint her, but you couldn’t, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say how much it meant to you that she loved you anyway. You never told her that, and now it's too late. So don't push your own failures on me, Spock, don't-”

"Jim, that's enough!" McCoy interrupted, standing abruptly up from his seat. A sudden silence fell, and Jim looked away wordlessly.

“Jim,” Spock began at last, his voice even and calm. "My personal matters are of no importance at the moment," he said. "It is your matters that concern us all now. You cannot allow your emotional conjectures to fuel your decisions, Jim. If indeed the information is correct, we have no time to spare in preparing our defense."

Jim stared at him for a long moment, and Spock wondered if he would continue resisting. Then, he stepped back and exhaled slowly, turning slightly towards the exit. “Send me the request from the Admiralty, Commander. I need to set up that conference with the council." He didn't look at them as he spoke, his face oddly still and empty of expression, and McCoy turned slightly in his seat to glance meaningfully at Spock.

When Spock did nothing, McCoy frowned disapprovingly and turned back, but Jim was already turning away.

The doors closed behind him, and Spock turned hesitantly towards McCoy. The doctor's expression displayed well what Spock was beginning to identify within himself, glancing at the Vulcan with growing alarm and concern.

“Do you think…we should…” McCoy gestured helplessly at the doors. “Should we?”

“No,” Spock said, reasoning out the intention behind the doctor’s fumbling words instantly. "I believe that, this once, it may be best to leave the captain to his own devices."

"Well," McCoy said eventually, scowling at the innocuous projector still laying on the table. "I should be headed back." Spock instantly stepped forward, propelled by a sudden inexplicable urge.

"I shall accompany you, Doctor," he said decisively, and McCoy eyed him suspiciously before grunting in affirmation and striding for the doors.

"I suppose I should be glad," McCoy grumbled, moments later as they walked down the halls. "At least he didn't break anything again."

Spock glanced at McCoy consideringly, and he pressed the button to summon the lift when they reached the end of the corridor. "You were well acquainted with the captain during your years at the Academy, if my observations are correct," he said, watching the doctor's expression carefully.

"They usually are," McCoy responded warily, crossing his arms across his chest. "So what?"

"Has he ever brought up mention of his mother in the time you two spent together?" The lift arrived and they stepped in, the quiet murmuring of the corridors falling silent as the doors slid shut.

"Not really," McCoy said, almost defensively. "I was brought up proper, y'know, manners and all. Not to speak ill of anyone's family or anything, but Jim's got some pretty sensitive history there that he didn't want anyone digging into. And we were just there. You saw how he was."

“He did not inform you of any details of his personal life?” Spock pressed intently.

“Well, I mean, nothing much beyond the basics. And that only came out around finals time, after a few hours of hitting the bars.” McCoy thought for a moment, his foot tapping distractedly on the floor of the lift. Spock considered informing the man of the nervous tic, but restrained himself to merely looking mildly impatient.

The turbolift halted and McCoy stepped out, gesturing for Spock to follow him into the medbay. “He has a brother. Sam,” McCoy said, ushering him into his office and sealing the door behind them. “He wasn’t in the picture for long, though, from what I understand. Step-father, too. Jim never said much about him, which I think speaks pretty clearly for itself. But his mom….he never mentioned her at all. I didn’t even think she was still around, personally, ‘til the death notice came in.” McCoy shrugged vaguely, taking a seat at his desk. “He was a private guy, I never thought to ask much more than that.”

Spock sat down in the chair across from the desk, placing his hands calmly on his knees and contemplating McCoy steadily. "I can confirm the validity of those facts, Doctor. It appears that the captain displays more honesty when sufficiently inebriated."

McCoy squinted at him suspiciously. "What, how do...." His eyes widened as he came swiftly to a full realization, three seconds sooner than Spock had predicted, and he grudgingly raised his measure of the other man by another percentile. "This is about that meld, isn't it."

It was not, Spock reflected, completely a question, and he responded with a simple nod. "I believe an explanation is long overdue."

"Damn right it is," McCoy muttered, and he leaned forward across the desk expectantly. "Well, go on."

Spock hesitated, scanning through the scant memories he had managed to decipher from the fragmented meld. It had been no simple process, attempting to make clear the blurred details without the advantage of proper stimuli, but the pieces he had untangled had been enlightening, to say the least.

"When I disengaged from my bond with the captain, I may have done so with perhaps less....precision as I might have under more favorable circumstances. As it is, we are both under the effects of what appears to be a mutual influence by the other's mind."

"So, it's like...like backlash of a sort, right?" McCoy asked, eyebrows lowering in consternation, "You've got something from him, he's got something from you."

"In a manner of speaking. I have managed to glean a few key pieces of the captain's past-"

"So you know about his mother?"

"Not everything," Spock admitted. "It appears that the majority of those memories were not transferred through the meld, or I have simply not been able to detect them thus far."

"Well." McCoy settled back in his seat, his expression lined in heavy thought. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we?" He watched Spock a moment longer, then said slowly, "So all that was true....what Jim said about you back there."

Spock studied the surface of McCoy's desk, noting absently that while the doctor's work area was substantially less haphazard than the captain, it still required a decent cleaning. "He was not incorrect," he answered quietly.

McCoy swore softly, and the doctor's chair creaked as he leaned forward, "I'm sorry, Spock."

Spock glanced up despite his previous misgivings, surprised at the utter sincerity in McCoy's tone. He found himself speaking soon afterwards, though he did not recall giving himself permission to do so. "It is perhaps one of my most prominent regrets, as much as it is against my principles, that I did not......that I never informed my mother of my affections for her."

"You never told her you loved her?"

"I did not," Spock answered, feeling the familiar shame prickling at his skin. "I regret heavily that she died before knowing that-"

"Of course she knew." Spock met McCoy's gaze then, slightly taken aback. The doctor was frowning at him as usual, but there was an understanding in his expression that Spock had rarely seen directed towards him.

"Do you feel guilty about her death?"

Spock paused, then said haltingly, "I know that it is...highly illogical to assume blame for something that was entirely out of my control...but the truth is, Doctor, irrational as it may seem, I do often wonder that if I had arrived any sooner, perhaps-"

"It wasn't your fault, Spock," McCoy said, his voice softening. "I know you're tired of hearing it-most people are- but you gotta know that whatever happened......it happened. And she did know you loved her. Mothers have a way of knowing things like that, after all. Some things just don't need to be said to be true." He watched Spock for a second, tapping his finger on his desk thoughtfully.

"Before, when you said Earth was the only home you had left," McCoy continued carefully, his eyes never leaving the Vulcan. "It's because you do acknowledge that side of you, right? Accepting that humanity...it's honoring her in a way that doesn't require words."

Spock swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to hold the doctor's gaze. "Yes, of course. I appreciate your input, Doctor."

"That's a first," McCoy muttered, but his mouth twitched good-naturedly as he settled back. Something still seemed to trouble the Vulcan, however, despite his claims, and the doctor might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking as closely as he was. It was in the way Spock’s shoulders slumped at the slightest degree, the way his gaze slid away uneasily even now, and McCoy narrowed his eyes consideringly, finding himself unable to let this go.

"What else is on your mind?” he asked, with the air of one fully expecting an answer in return.

Spock was reluctant to answer immediately as he composed his thoughts. "The captain's anger is not misplaced by any means. When I initiated the meld, it was purely for the sake of alleviating his pain, regardless of his will. I have attempted to justify my actions through concentrating on the positive aspects of the effects, however, it is....it is a grave violation that warrants far worse than his displeasure, and I do not expect Jim to come to terms with it as long as this effect lasts."

"But he knows why you did it-”

“It is obvious that he is still discontent with the results, despite my original intent,” Spock answered. "I did not wish for this consequence any more than Jim, and this animosity between us is....troubling, to say the least."

“Hmm.” McCoy seemed almost satisfied with the reply. "Well, you care about him, don't you? Friendship's messy like that sometimes."

Spock listened to the doctor's words, a gradual realization beginning to dawn within him even at that moment.

"It is to my understanding," he said slowly, "that when humans care for one another, they wish the best for the other party, no matter the sacrifice it may bring."

"Well, sure-" McCoy stopped short, an odd expression passing over his face. "What are you on about, Spock?"

"It is simple reasoning. If my very presence is troubling to the captain and therefore impeding to his obligations, then it is my responsibility to remove the obstruction, which in this case is myself." Spock took a deep breath. "I believe that the only practical solution at hand is for me to request a transfer."

McCoy stared at him, incredulity battling with reluctant admiration in his expression. "Is that really what you want?"

Spock frowned slightly. "Of course, I would prefer to remain on this ship, Doctor. Despite my initial reservations, my time aboard has been....pleasant, dare I say."

"Don't rush this," McCoy cautioned. "Just don't- don't do anything rash, Spock, for crying out loud. You practically said it yourself, you’d stay with him, keep him in one piece."

Spock was quiet for a beat, before he answered, "I believe the captain will be able to manage even without my assistance. He has certainly proved himself capable before. And this... if this will preserve our friendship in any capacity, then it is what I want."

…

McCoy shifted in his seat uncomfortably as the first screens began to appear, blue-edged silhouettes flickering in the empty seats around the conference table. He glanced at Spock furtively for the sixth time in forty-five seconds, then leaned over to hiss at the Vulcan, “Why am I here again?”

“The captain has requested your presence at the meeting,” Spock answered, eyes fixed on the materializing holograms.

 _Some explanation_ , McCoy thought moodily, sitting back in his seat and fiddling with his cuffs distractedly. He’d been more than a little surprised to receive the summons barely thirty minutes after Spock had vacated his office, having assumed that the conference would primarily include the captain and first officer.

After receiving the comm, McCoy had made his way through the decks anyway, bemused and not a little apprehensive. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit, had been his worst class, actually. If Jim hadn’t been around for cramming sessions at the time, he may have very well failed that course in training.

He’d almost completely rounded the last corner when he caught a glimpse of command gold and, for reasons he still didn’t know himself, he paused and stepped back so that he could observe unseen.

Jim was pacing in front of the conference room door, face set in concentration. He seemed to be thinking something over, the weight of the matter practically bowing his shoulders, and McCoy had a sudden flashback of a slightly younger Jim wearing out the doormat in front of his friend's medical dorm room, trying to work up the nerve to apologize for whatever stupid thing he'd done that week.

It wasn't long before he heard a quiet footstep and peeked out farther to see Spock step in front of Jim mid-pace, hands behind his back and his expression wary.

"Captain."

Jim had stared at Spock for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working as if he was struggling to say something, then the moment had passed and he had merely nodded distantly.

“Commander."

McCoy had taken the cue then and made a great deal of fanfare with coughing and clearing his throat before emerging, and the three of them had made their way into the room.

The last few members were logging in now, and McCoy suppressed a rising tide of discomfort as flickering heads turned to survey the three of them seated around the head of the table. “I hate this,” he muttered to himself, then forced himself to smile blandly at an inquisitive woman seated to his left.

He glanced around uneasily at the rest of the faces, recognizing Admiral Barnett and Komack from Jim’s trial, but most of the council was unknown to him. They would be, he figured, after the attack by Khan. They'd lost Pike and more, other leading heads injured or simply traumatized into early retirement.

"Captain Kirk," Barnett spoke first, seated at the other end of the long table across from Jim. "I understand there has been a recent development that prompted this meeting."

Jim straightened, and from where McCoy sat, he could make out the carefully composed expression on the younger man's face as he pulled up his notes on the datapad in front of him. "Two days ago, I was assaulted and held captive by an unidentified organization. They implanted a bomb in me, defused by my first officer and chief medical officer, both of whom are present here today."

McCoy stared pointedly at the table as impassive eyes swept over him and Spock. The goblin took it all in stride, of course, nothing in his ramrod posture signifying anything more than mild boredom at the close inspection. McCoy found himself unconsciously trying to copy the stance, and he forcibly slouched his shoulders at the realization.

"The same organization made contact soon afterwards," Jim continued. "I believe the details were given in Mr. Spock's report." He paused for what appeared to be calculated effect before saying, "There is another matter their leader mentioned. Concerning the state of the abandoned planet on which I was attacked. Starfleet's involvement in the planet's deterioration was....explicitly implied." He kept his tone neutral as he spoke, but McCoy couldn't help but glance anxiously around the table.

"You should never take the word of a terrorist, Captain," Barnett eventually answered. "The matter doesn't concern you or your crew." His eyes pinned McCoy briefly to his seat, before the steely gaze swiveled to Spock, then finally rested on Jim. "Will this be a problem?"

"No...sir," Jim answered, when McCoy and Spock remained silent. McCoy could practically feel the weight of the sudden tension, and he was relieved when the conversation moved on.

"This Cetus character," said a dark-haired woman on the right side of the table. "Your message implied that he was planning a strike.”

McCoy watched as Jim nodded and rattled out the details of the Memorial attack, as cool and efficient as if he’d spent half his life on Vulcan instead of smashing up country bars. There was something almost mechanical in his precise movements and words, something distant and elusive that McCoy only managed to identify because he heard it from a certain Vulcan every damn day.

“....less than three days,” Jim was saying now. “The exact number of assailants are unknown, but it’ll be hard for them to sneak in more than five or six, if they’re planning to take out the inner ring. No more than ten for certain.”

A silver-haired woman beside Komack frowned and tapped at the table silently at that. “Perhaps a simple postponement of the ceremony will-”

“The ceremony can’t be cancelled,” Jim said impatiently, and McCoy glanced sharply at the slip in formality.

Beside him, Spock smoothly took up the slack, “It would be illogical to cancel such a prominent ceremony with such short notice. The terrorists would only retaliate in another, less predictable form once it is realized that the Federation has gained knowledge of their plans. Under these circumstances, it is only logical to utilize our current knowledge to maintain the advantage. We know where they will be in three days, and therefore we can make our plans accordingly.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Spock. My point exactly,” Jim picked up again coolly, but McCoy noticed that he didn’t so much as glance as Spock as he scanned the occupants of the table with a distant gaze.

“This information,” Barnett was saying, leaning forward intently. His elbows passed through the surface of the tables, and McCoy found himself distracted by the sight for a split second. “Where did you say you received this from, exactly?”

McCoy tried not to visibly start at the words. So Jim hadn’t told them about his mother. Honestly, McCoy wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but knowing that the kid was still this conflicted over it...well, it only made him even more grateful for his private stash of good Southern whiskey back in his office. Maybe he’d invite Spock, have a commiseration party behind Jim’s back.

True to form, however strange it was at the moment, Jim stared back solidly, his face giving nothing away. "I have promised to keep my source anonymous until further notice," he said stiffly, but McCoy could make out the tension in his shoulders and he suspected that Jim's hands were clenched beneath the table to keep from doing something truly stupid. "But it's a reliable source, I guarantee it. I have to- we have to trust this information to be accurate."

And there it was, the first indication of whatever was going on in Jim's head. McCoy realized he was leaning forward over the table, and he sat back with an uncomfortable nod at his left-hand neighbor.

"Are you certain?" Barnett pressed sharply. "This is not only your career at stake here, Captain."

Jim's lips thinned, a telling sign of his rising temper, and McCoy silently willed him to not say anything regrettable here in this room of influential powers.

"I'm not concerned over my _career_ , Admiral," Jim said, a barely detectable edge of scathing disdain in his voice, and McCoy winced subtly as the occupants of the table shifted with disapproving murmurs. "I'm far more invested in the thousands of lives we'll manage to save if we can prevent this assault from happening!"

Spock shifted, turning to say something quietly to Jim that McCoy couldn't make out, and he watched as Jim's rigid expression gradually smoothed over, the spark of anger in his eyes dimming distantly.

"I have a plan," he continued briskly, scanning around the table as calmly as if the outburst had never happened. "If you will allow me, of course," he added, eyes cutting back to Barnett. The admiral gazed back for a long moment, and McCoy found himself holding his breath nervously.

"Proceed, Captain Kirk," Barnett said at last, and McCoy finally allowed himself to relax minutely. Beside him, Spock seemed to have the same reaction, albeit much more subtle as the tension cautiously faded from his stance.

Jim nodded, and McCoy thought that his friend had never looked more weary or alone as he leaned over his PADD and began to explain what exactly would happen at the memorial site in less than thirty-six hours. McCoy had seen more broken people in his life, on the table, than he ever wanted to see. The worst ones, he thought now, were those who believed they were exempt from the rule. He found himself looking over at Jim again, and he saw the burden that slumped his shoulders and darkened his eyes.

And it was always the strongest who broke first.


	10. Chapter 10

There were thirty hours left until the memorial, and it was starting to show. The crew was buzzing with mingled tension and purpose, the comm channels jammed with outgoing messages warning family and friends away from the memorial site, and McCoy had handed out more antidepressant hypos in the past six hours than he had in a month before the entire mess began.

Jim, on the other hand, was now quietly doing paperwork in his command chair, and if that in itself wasn’t unsettling, McCoy didn’t know what was. It was usually a hassle just to get the man to sit still for more than five minutes, much less hand him a stack of PADDs and expect him to be sitting down long enough to do it. And yet, that was what was undeniably happening that very moment.

McCoy watched out of the corner of his eye as Jim handed off the next ledger to Uhura with a vacant nod, redirecting his gaze to the remaining pile of paperwork on his lap without so much as a wink or a grin or some flirty sidenote.

It was odd, it was strange, and McCoy didn't deal well with sudden changes. He liked things to be in place, he liked to be comfortable, but if there was one person in the whole of universe who managed to upset every standard McCoy had previously known, it was Jim Kirk.

Uhura returned to her seat, casting a questioning glance at McCoy with an accompanying eyebrow lift she must’ve learned from the hobgoblin himself. He raised a shoulder in a small, answering shrug. Jim’s response had been...different, to be sure, and it wasn’t even the first unusual thing McCoy had noticed about him recently.

After the briefing the day before, which had somehow managed to end much more cordially on both sides than McCoy had initially anticipated, Jim had made his curt farewells without looking either him or Spock in the eye, and then disappeared off to who knows where until Alpha shift.

McCoy had managed to wrangle his shift in medbay off to an unimpressed Chapel in order to place himself on the bridge at that time for.....purposes of strategic observation, he reminded himself. That'd be what Spock would call it, or some other logical claptrap. Someone had to keep an eye on the kid, and Spock had his own issues to worry about.

It later turned out Jim had summoned him to the bridge anyway to work out the details of the dispatch team to Earth, and so he found himself waiting uncomfortably next to the command chair sixteen minutes into the shift. He realized belatedly now that he was, in fact, standing exactly where Spock would normally be, and that idea didn't sit right with him one bit.

The Vulcan was working at his station quietly and hadn't made a move towards Jim all shift, obviously still unsettled by the change in dynamic between them. McCoy wondered briefly if it was possible for him to shuffle closer and confer with Spock somehow without Jim noticing, then dismissed the foolish notion and continued to pretend that he was examining Chekov's console from across the bridge.

"So," McCoy said uncomfortably, simply for the sake of breaking the silence. Jim, predictably, paid him no mind, and McCoy forged on with dogged determination. "I suppose it makes sense, then, how that second failsafe in that bomb kicked off, if Cetus had those transmitters on us the whole time."

“Mmm,” Jim murmured disinterestedly.

McCoy counted to ten, then counted again for good measure.

Jim's voice distracted him in the next moment, however, and McCoy glanced down in surprise. Jim had set down his work to look up at him, the first time he'd done so all shift, to McCoy's knowledge. “Have you picked out your dispatch unit?”

 _Oh, so you’re talking to me now, are you?_ McCoy bit back what would most likely be a regrettable comment and answered the question succinctly instead, “Yes, Captain. You told me to stick to five-” A fool idea, really, with that number of potential casualties present. “-so I’ve got Perkins, Johnson, Kent, and Chapel. Plus myself. They're good in a pinch, level-headed under stress and all that-"

"Good," Jim interrupted, with little indication that he had been listening at all. He'd already started back on his work, and McCoy found himself staring down at the back of his head incredulously. He could feel a familiar irritation rising within him despite knowing exactly why the kid was acting like this, the same part of him that still remembered the cadet with a disproportionate ego knocking on his door with a broken nose after one too many drinks that night.

"Is that all, sir?" he ground out with forced politeness, because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to keep his patience with Jim Kirk. Even in his most insufferable moments, which was apparently now.

"That'll be all for now, yes," Jim answered, and McCoy took a deep breath to calm himself down before turning back to face the front of the bridge. No wonder Spock stood like that all the time, he thought wryly. With his hands behind his back, it certainly eased the temptation of knocking some sense into the kid.

Jim straightened not long after, lifting his arm as if to offer the PADD he was holding over his shoulder before he seemed to catch himself, his hand raised at an awkward angle. McCoy cast a curious glance his way, and he was mildly troubled when he found that he couldn't read Jim's expression.

"Bones," Jim said at last, looking his way without meeting his eyes. "Look over this for me?" He proffered the PADD to McCoy, the gesture seeming almost imploring in a distant sort of way.

McCoy took the datapad skeptically and gave it a cursory glance, realizing instantly that he didn't understand a word of it. It was completely clear who it was meant for, though, and it was bleakly amusing in a way that Jim couldn't even bring himself to hand a PADD to Spock.

"It's the layout of the memorial," Jim said after a moment of watching McCoy stare blankly at the thing. "Positioning of the separate units."

Ah. He could see it now, almost, if he squinted at the diagram just right. "That us, then? Down in the inner ring?"

"My unit," Jim corrected, leaning over to point. "Medics will beam down on the second ring with the civilians."

Well, McCoy couldn't say that it didn't make sense, but he looked at Jim dubiously anyway. "You're right in the thick of it, then, in front of Cetus and his lot. Bit risky, don't you think?"

"It's where they'll expect me to be," Jim said offhandedly, taking the datapad back. "Honorary seating and all. If I'm a target now, it won't stop them."

"I don't like it," McCoy grumbled, only partially out of obligation. He had a reputation to keep as the sane one, after all. "All sorts of things could-"

"You don't have to," Jim cut in, and McCoy stopped to glare at him. He wasn't even looking, the stubborn idiot, his eyes locked back on the screen and his fingers tapping away maddeningly.

He'd had enough of this, McCoy decided abruptly. "I'm headed back to medbay," he said shortly, trying to prompt some sort of reaction from Jim. Anything would do at this point, really. "Seeing as my opinion's not needed here."

"Mmm," Jim answered absently, barely listening.

McCoy took another calming breath, and his eyes flickered to Spock's rigid back. No help there. He was going to have to pull this one off on his own. "Can I have a word with you, Captain?”

Jim waved at him to continue, but McCoy stood his ground. “Alone, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The younger man glanced up at him with a flicker of wariness, lowering his PADD into his lap. “Not now, Bones,” he said quietly, and McCoy shook his head in resolution.

“You don’t want to have this conversation here, Jim,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “Trust me.”

“Bones, I _can’t_ -”

McCoy made an impatient noise and stepped in closer, hissing, “Doesn’t it mean anything to you, Jim? What we talked about back on that shuttle?”

Jim stared at him, and McCoy felt a pang of satisfaction at finally throwing the kid off for once. “What?” Jim asked, as soon as he’d regained his composure- all too soon, in McCoy’s opinion.

“You heard me. We’re talking about this here, right now, unless you get your ass down from that high horse of yours and-” He stopped short, unable to get much further as Jim stood abruptly from the chair and grabbed a handful of his shirt, jostling him backwards towards the doors.

“Let’s go,” the other man muttered, his shoulders tense and his eyes practically burning blue with ill-disguised irritation.

Well, that made two of them, McCoy decided disgruntledly, allowing himself to be all but manhandled off the bridge. The stares of the crew followed them out, accompanied by Spock's own inscrutable gaze as the doors closed.

McCoy opened his mouth, ready to speak as soon as they were in the corridor, but Jim kept going until they were at the corner before finally stepping away from the doctor, his demeanor anything but welcome. “What was that about, Bones?” he demanded, somehow managing to make the nickname anything but friendly. “You couldn’t have waited until after shift?”

“You would’ve just run off again,” McCoy snapped defensively. “Back to wherever you’ve been hiding yourself recently- don’t deny it,” he added, seeing that familiar recalcitrant look in Jim’s expression

“I wasn’t,” Jim muttered, a little of his old petulance returning, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Well, you’ve got me now. What did you want?”

"Come on, Jim, you know what. _This_." McCoy gestured exasperatedly at him, then back towards the bridge where the source of the problem still obliviously remained. "Whatever it is going on between you and Spock. You owe it to yourselves to figure it out."

Jim sighed grievously. “Bones, it’s really not a big deal.”

"Not a big de-" McCoy began incredulously, then cut off, shaking his head with a grimace. “You mean to tell me that this doesn't bother you? All the...the hiding away and the fighting?”

"Spock and I fight all the time,” Jim argued reasonably.

"Not like this," McCoy pointed out.

Jim seemed to be struggling with his next words, finally settling on, “It’s complicated.”

McCoy raised his chin stubbornly. “So what? We've seen more than complicated before.”

Jim shook his head frustratedly. “You wouldn’t understand, Bones. You don't know what it's like." He was starting to look fidgety, as if he was going to bolt any second, and McCoy resisted the urge to physically block the way back to the bridge with his own body.

"You're better than this," McCoy said quietly, wanting to reach out and take Jim's arm, but knowing instinctively that it wasn't the right time now.

"You're a good man, Jim," he said instead. "And a good captain. I just never took you to be a damn coward."

“You think I want this?” Jim demanded, eyes widening in heated disbelief. McCoy felt a twisted sense of victory at having baited some sort of response, even if it was anger. Anger was a good first step; it was probably the most honest of the human emotions. “You think I _like_ doing this to him? He’s my friend, and I-”

“Well, you’ve got more than one friend, don’t you?!” McCoy jabbed at Jim’s chest accusingly. “Why the blazes do you think I’m out here with you right now, Jim? It doesn’t take some kinda mind meld to see that you need more help than you’re willing to ask for! So you listen to me, or one day you'll wake up and realize that the good things in your life just aren't there anymore, when they’re standing right in front of you." He was almost out of breath by the end of his tirade, flushed with righteous satisfaction.

Jim looked stunned, mouth fallen slightly open in surprise. “You-” he made a valiant effort to retort, then visibly deflated, his shoulders sagging slightly and his mouth twisting in wry amusement. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous, Bones."

“That's not the point,” McCoy grumbled, mildly disappointed that Jim hadn’t yelled back at him for some inexplicable reason.

“I know,” Jim said, his smile fading and leaving behind only a weary echo in his eyes. “Look, Bones, the truth is...I don't know if I can fix this."

"Well, why the hell not?" McCoy demanded.

"Because it changed _everything_ between us! You can't just go back from something like this, and I-” His voice wavered, but stopped before it managed to crack. “I don’t know what to do, what to say to him. The hell do you say to a guy who’s seen you at your worst?" He seemed to notice then that McCoy's gaze had slid over his shoulder, eyes widening meaningfully, and he turned on his heel in time to see Spock come to a full stop in front of them.

"Spock," Jim said blankly, and McCoy's gaze flicked between him and the Vulcan nervously. He hadn't seen Spock approach at all until he was practically breathing down their necks, or he would've.....what, exactly, he didn't know. This was what he'd wanted, after all.

"Captain," Spock answered evenly, as if those weren't the first words they'd exchanged all day. His face was carefully composed, but it had the air of a fragile perfection that was struggling to remain unbroken, and McCoy had no doubt that Spock had overheard their exchange. He was resolutely not looking at either of them, eyes fixed respectfully on the floor, and McCoy felt a sudden flicker of guilt.

"Is there something you need, Commander?" Jim asked, slipping back into cool detachment with an ease that made McCoy mourn the time he'd just spent attempting to convince Jim of the exact reverse.

Spock hesitated, finally glancing up towards McCoy in what was possibly some form of supplication. "There is a matter I wish to...discuss..."

Jim's comm beeped with suspiciously terrible timing, cutting him off. McCoy muffled his curse before it could fully escape, rolling his eyes in impatience as Jim fumbled for the device on his belt.

"It's Scotty," he muttered after a moment, staring at the text comm on the small screen. "I gotta go."

There was an awkward silence that followed, neither Spock or Jim looking at each other and McCoy feeling extremely disgruntled at the entire situation. He sighed wearily, "All right, I'm taking off for the labs."

"Okay," Jim said, trying to sound casual and slightly overshooting the mark. "I'll see you, then."

"And I'm gonna need Spock."

Now _that_ elicited something from the both of them- Spock shifted his gaze to eye McCoy warily and Jim jerked his head up from the screen to stare at McCoy full-on. "What?"

McCoy stifled a knowing smirk, putting on his best nonchalant expression instead. "You've got me on a tough assignment for that plan of yours, Captain. I'm gonna need all the free hands I can get. And Spock's not occupied now, are you?" He directed the last towards the Vulcan, who merely blinked back, nonplussed.

Jim hesitated a split second, but that brief pause told more than he had probably intended to.

"Cap-" Spock tried to begin, and if McCoy didn't know better, he'd say the Vulcan looked almost torn.

"Go on," Jim said, tearing his eyes away from McCoy. "You're dismissed, Commander."

“Yes, Captain,” Spock said, after a lengthy pause. He looked for a moment like he was going to linger longer, then stopped when McCoy caught his eye and jerked his head down the corridor.

“Come along,” McCoy mouthed, relieved when Spock obligingly followed him away, leaving Jim where he stood.

As soon as they piled into the lift, Spock chanced to ask, “What is your true intention in requesting my presence, Doctor?”

“Come on, I did you a favor,” McCoy snorted. “You can’t mean to say you would have enjoyed the rest of shift. Standing there like a couple of overgrown popsicles.”

"There was an element of unpleasantness that was….discomforting," Spock eventually conceded, and McCoy nodded in satisfaction.

"Well, to tell the truth, I didn't do it all from the goodness of my heart," he said grudgingly. "I've got something to show you."

Spock glanced at him sharply just as the lift doors opened, and McCoy strode out briskly before he could speak.

"Doctor," the Vulcan attempted anyway, catching up with two easy strides, to McCoy's annoyance. "I find that to be an inadequate explanation, as you failed to establish the specific-”

"You'll see," McCoy assured him, ushering him into the lab. It was empty on his request while he was working on the inane project Jim had assigned him via text comm shortly after the briefing. The debris of his earlier labors were still scattered across the worksurfaces, one stray stylus lying snapped clean in half from an exercise of sheer frustration.

Spock cast an inquisitive look towards the clutter, briefly distracted by what McCoy supposed was what he considered to be a horrific example of mass disorganization.

"You appear to have made significant progress," the Vulcan said carefully, bending over to examine one of the sketches more closely. “The designs are quite intricate.”

"Yeah, well, I've got my own weight to pull around here, don't I?" McCoy grumbled, sweeping up his plans and making a note to himself to get the charts down to Scotty soon. Damn Jim and all his crazy, brilliant ideas. He put the matter out of his mind firmly, turning mentally to the issue at hand. Spock was looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting to be shown whatever it was he'd been brought here to see, and McCoy sighed, rubbing absently at his eye.

“Jim wasn’t kidding, you know, when he told us he’d had broken ribs before,” he said finally. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Spock said nothing, his expression unreadable, and after a moment, McCoy gave a quiet huff of mirthless laughter. “Well, it explains his crazy high pain tolerance, at any rate." He picked a PADD up from the table and swiped a few screens over before handing it to Spock. "Here."

The Vulcan scanned the first page of the report, eyebrows raising gradually as he came to a full realization. "Doctor, these are the captain's medical records."

"Imagine that," McCoy muttered. "Tell me something I don't know, Spock."

Spock frowned, continuing quietly, "There will most certainly be repercussions when Jim discovers-"

"I'm his _doctor_ , damn it!” McCoy exploded impatiently, slapping at the table. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t need to know this."

Spock hesitated, wavering slightly, then asked firmly, "And is your motivation one of that as the captain's doctor, or his friend?"

"I'm worried about him, Spock," McCoy snapped back. "And I know you are, too. I can't even remember the last time I've had a good night's sleep on this ship, can you?"

Spock said nothing, but McCoy took the silence as answer enough.

"I just thought you could take a look, see if anything jogs your..." McCoy gestured vaguely. "...might as well put that meld to use, right? His whole medical history's in there, you should be able to put it all together if you've got those memories of his."

"Why the sudden urgency?" Spock inquired. "The current mission is of the highest priori-"

"And how are we supposed to go through this with Jim in this state?" McCoy retorted. "He's messed up in ways that I don't know how to fix, and I hate to even think it, but I can't do a damn thing for him. And now on top of everything else he's had to deal with these past few days, hell, with his _life_ , he's got this thing with his mom..."

McCoy stopped and shook his head with a sigh of resignation. "The bottom line is, Jim's gonna break and it's only a matter of time. It's a miracle it hasn't happened yet, really, and we need to be there to pick up the pieces when it does."

He caught Spock's questioning look and tried to elaborate. "We humans are flimsy things, Spock. It takes a lot to get us to that point, but when we fall apart...we fall hard. And the strongest fall the hardest. Sometimes we get back up, but sometimes we don't, and I don't want to see that happen to my best friend. So I need to know what's going on." Upon seeing the slightest trace of reluctance still in the Vulcan's expression, he took a deep breath and uttered a small, "Please, Spock."

McCoy watched with bated breath as Spock hesitated, then nodded, looking back down at the PADD. He knew what the Vulcan was seeing, had pored over it himself in the privacy of his quarters many times already.

He remembered reading over the lists of numerous physical traumas, feeling sick to his stomach at the vision of a young Jim bruised and bleeding, refusing to file an investigation report and turning away multiple psychologists. He remembered the details of the surgery that had put his right arm back together after suffering eight breaks and three hairline fractures. He remembered seeing the empty visitation records and the lonely emergency contact channel that could never be answered from a starship light years away.

Spock's brow furrowed as he read, his eyes growing distant as he flicked through the records, and McCoy could only hope that he was seeing some long-past memory.

Spock scanned past the most recent additions, remembering well just how Jim had acquired each notated injury. Several were accompanied by the doctor's own annotations, usually punctuated by some form of derogatory comment regarding the captain's sense of responsibility, or lack thereof. On the impulse of a rare whim, Spock slid the screens to the earliest accounts and was surprised to see that they began as early as the age of eight.

The hospital visits became increasingly more frequent throughout his late childhood and early adolescence, but it was at an entry logged during the captain's sixteenth year that gave Spock pause.

Four broken ribs, fractured collarbone, shattered ulna, severe bruising and internal injury. And at the bottom of the entry in small, official print: Guardian held under interview. Spock stared at the small, tidy text delineating what must have been great violence, wondering how the circumstances had come about to cause such an occurrence. He could easily imagine the extent of the physical damage, all the more shocking on such a young face...

_His whole body ached, his lower lip split and bruised. He could taste the sharp tang of his own blood, feel it drying in rusty streaks across his chin, and he winced as his grimace tugged at the swelling around his left eye._

_Damn him, he thought viciously, probing gingerly at the worst of the marks on his cheek. At least Frank hadn't busted his nose again, or so he hoped. The last it'd happened, he'd suffered a week in school from too many concerned questions and just as many sneering jibes._

_Frank was passed out on the couch now, snoring and grunting with a case of empty beer bottles on the floor beside him. Disgusting, Jim thought vindictively. He could run anywhere now, just like his brother, make his own way in this stupid, unforgiving world. He didn't need anyone, didn't need his mom, and he sure as hell didn't need Frank._

_He was gonna do it, he decided, glaring into the bathroom mirror. He looked terrible, a long scratch from Frank’s ring running down his cheek along the darkening bruises. Anywhere was better than this._

_The house was dark despite the brightness of the afternoon, heavy curtains pulled over the windows and the shadowy floorboards cool beneath his bare feet as he tiptoed down the hallway. She'd always liked them to take their shoes off in the house, and it was a habit he’d never quite grown out of._

_Frank was as good as dead on his own, and Jim couldn't care less, as long as he wasn't anywhere close. Everything would be okay once he got away. He thought this to himself repeatedly as he crept inside his mother's empty bedroom, mouthing the familiar mantra as he headed towards the tall chest of drawers by her bed._

_He needed to move fast, if he was going to be out of the house by the time Frank woke up. There was a bus station a few miles away that he could make by sunset if he left now._

_His fingers fumbled the latch of the top drawer in his haste, and he muttered a curse to himself as he finally succeeded in wrenching it open. His mother was gone on another mission, had been gone for a week now, and somewhere along the line she had stopped telling him when she'd be back. It wasn't like she needed the money anyway, he thought as he rummaged through the contents of the drawer. No point in seeing it all go to waste, or letting it all go to Frank._

_He rooted through the folded garments within the second drawer, wrinkling his nose at the faint puffs of dust and the familiar smell that always reminded him achingly of forgotten afternoons and sunshine. The third drawer was just as fruitless, and he slammed it shut with annoyed frustration. The force of his shove jostled the chest slightly, rocking it back against the wall, and something slid off the top with a metallic slither and clanked lightly to the floor._

_He froze at the sound, an automatic wave of fear jarring through him. If Frank woke up now-_

_He tilted his head, listening hard. There was no noise coming from downstairs, and he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, staring down guiltily at the-_

_He lifted the necklace up from the floor by one end of its chain, rolling the cold links between his fingers absently. There were two rectangular plates dangling off the chain- dog tags, he thought belatedly, remembering old photos and vague museum exhibits._

_The tags were spotted with tarnish, clinking quietly in his hand as he turned them over curiously. The inscriptions on the first tag were faded, just faint scratches on the dull metal surface, and he brought the tags close to his face to make out the barely legible words._

_"Greater love has no man than this, that a man gives up his life for his friends," the inscription read, minus a few letters aged beyond recognition that he easily filled in. He mulled over the words for a few moments, then dismissed them distractedly and turned his attention to the second tag._

_The name on this tag stood out starkly, clearly a newer addition, and he felt his stomach drop dizzily in recognition._

_George Kirk._

_He hadn't known there was anything left in the house that had belonged to his father, except for the old wedding photo that his mother had refused to let Frank throw out. He poured the chain from hand to hand for a moment, fascinated by the smooth coil of cool metal, then shoved the tags in his pocket. He'd take a look at them again later, once he found the money-_

_"What the hell are you doing in here?"_

_Jim was paralyzed, his heart pounding in his chest, just as trapped as he was. The dog tags burned an icy hole in his pocket, but he didn't move to take them out._

_Frank grabbed his arm, spinning him around roughly. He stumbled back into the chest, knocking it back into the wall with a thump again. The top two drawer handles dug into his back, twin flares of pain that felt like nothing under the wave of panic assaulting his mind._

_"I asked you a question, boy." The weighty slap that followed wasn't completely unexpected, but it caught the side of his head and left his ears ringing, his cheek flaming in humiliation and pain. “What d’you put in your pocket?”_

_"Nothing," he snarled back, surly in his defiance, and he tasted blood on the next strike as it snapped his head around._

_“You lying little shit. Give it to me.”_

_Jim shook his head, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants. He shoved his hands in his pockets, curling his fingers around the tags in numb resistance. “No.”_

_Frank pushed him away from the drawers, throwing him hard against the wall by the door. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and his mouth flew open in a breathless wheeze as his shoulders curled in instinctively, trying to draw in air._

_Frank seized the opportunity to snatch at his arm, prying the tags free from numb fingers. He looked down at them for a blank moment, then snorted and pitched them across the room._

_“You’re nothing,” Frank said, his voice echoing and pulsing from every dark corner. Jim blinked away black spots from his vision, bracing himself on his knees. “You’ll never be anything to anyone, you hear?”_

_He felt the next blow across his ribs, and then-_

The memory dissolved abruptly before Spock could continue, and he blinked hard, mirroring Jim’s last actions before Frank had…

He touched a hand to his side at the sudden throb of phantom pain, remembering all too well the imprint of his stepfather’s boot- no, Jim’s stepfather. His actions were irrational, Spock knew, as he himself had not experienced the blow, and yet the vividness of the memory was slow to fade. Gradually, he became aware of McCoy's hand on his shoulder, gripping it anxiously. "Spock, you all right?"

Spock found, to his dissatisfaction, that he had no adequate answer with which to summarize the roil of conflict within him. He felt rage, certainly, a dull anger towards the source of Jim's pain, as well as a sharper sorrow that cut deeper than his rage. He remained unable to respond, and McCoy's hold on his shoulder tightened in commiseration.

"It is now irrefutable to me, Doctor, that your suspicions about the captain's childhood experiences are correct," Spock eventually said, managing to maintain an even tone as he spoke.

"That's no consolation," McCoy muttered, releasing Spock's shoulder to reach for the PADD. He grimaced as he recognized the entry before pulling up another item in the file. "Says here Jim managed to stay clear a couple of years, til he cropped up again in Vegas for public misdemeanor." He gave a halfhearted chuckle. "Sounds just like him. Troublemaker to the core."

McCoy lowered the file, and they were both quiet for a short time as they digested the information.

"It is likely," Spock finally remarked, "that the abuse would have continued to take place had Jim's guardian not been incarcerated following that particular incident."

McCoy looked up at him, his gaze conveying the myriad of emotions he felt in that moment, and he finished, "And the only reason that happened was because that bastard of a stepfather nearly killed him."


	11. Chapter 11

Jim stifled a yawn as Scotty rattled on beside him, casting a casual eye around the walls of the transporter room. The engineer had been jabbering away excitedly at him for the past ten minutes about the landing protocols once they arrived at Earth, thrusting an armful of charts at him as soon as he’d stepped over the threshold and babbling about thruster magnitude and the logistics of keeping the ship in the atmosphere during the memorial. Jim had attempted to reassure the anxious engineer, trying not to think about his own doubts.

"So you'll be wantin' the reserve units up 'here, then?"

Jim hummed absently, then started when Scotty poked at his elbow. "What?"

The engineer squinted at him carefully, concern overriding the exasperated wit that was his usual personality. "You a'right there, Cap? Lookin' a bit peaky, if y'don't mind me sayin' so."

"I'm fine," Jim said briskly, the response coming so rapidly now that he was even starting to believe it himself. "So what were you saying about the-"

"C'mon, Jim. It don't take a doctor to see it." Scotty scowled, the exaggerated expression looking almost comedic on his round face. Jim suppressed the urge to rub at his temples, trying to forcibly press back his oncoming headache.

"See what?"

Scotty gestured at him with a rolled-up chart. "You're exhausted, laddie. Anyone that's got eyes could tell you that."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Jim tried to joke, and Scotty pinned him with a fierce squint that easily rivaled McCoy's glare.

"Not funny, Jimmy," Scotty said quietly, some of his fire dying as he considered the younger man. "Not really."

Jim sobered instantly, feeling a trickle of the weariness he'd been holding back seep into his voice. "I know. I'm sorry."

Scotty sniffed dismissively, tucking the charts back under his arm. "I'll be off then. Got to catch up on some sleep myself. And I'd be advisin' you t'do the same, Cap. Before y'keel straight over."

Jim ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even further in his distraction. "All right. Thanks, Scotty." He waited until the doors had closed behind the engineer before exhaling a long sigh, rolling his shoulders and wincing when his neck popped in complaint.

The lighting in the room was on half capacity, the glowing strips around the steps of the transporter pulsing gently in the semi-darkness as he stopped in front of them. He could hear the heartbeat of his _Enterprise_ here, feel it humming in the air and throbbing steadily under his boots. As much as he loved captaining on the bridge, there was something he still wistfully missed about crawling around in the deep belly of the ship, the smell of engine oil and ozone heavy in the warm air. It was in the rare moments like this, when he was alone, that he could begin to remember that feeling.

He found himself staring at the rightmost platform, something prickling at the edges of his consciousness, straining to be acknowledged. He'd been there before, or somewhere similar......no, it _had_ been him.

There was a muted anger in his chest that wasn't his, a rage that tried to claw and burn through his body even as his mind fought to distinguish it. The memory surged up unbidden, bringing within it waves of emotion that he couldn’t rein back, couldn’t begin to control. Heated wrath and painful, searing sorrow, mixed so thoroughly he couldn't tell the difference, and somewhere within, a soft voice saying his name in a language he didn't know, but it wasn't _his_ name, it was-

_“Speak your mind, Spock.” Sarek stepped forward from the shadows, eyebrows angled sternly over unreadable eyes._

" _That would be unwise," he answered, striving to keep his own voice even. He could not be a failure in even this,_ would _not fail again._

_"What is necessary is never unwise."_

_He stared at the platform, at the empty space that should have been filled. It would have been better if he had fallen in her place, he could not help but think. It was an irrational thought, a human error, but he was tiring of the old ways that had condemned him as inferior. Had condemned her._

_“I feel as conflicted as I once was as a child,” he finally confessed, lifting his eyes to Sarek reluctantly._

_“You will always be a child of two worlds. I am grateful for this.” His father paused, his lined face as inscrutable as the day Spock looked into it and inquired if he was a traitor to his people. “And for you,” he finished unexpectedly, and it was that unpredictable statement that prompted Spock to speak._

_“I feel anger for the one who took Mother’s life. An anger I cannot control."_

_His father stepped in close, and there was a shade of emotion there, stirring deep within the depths of weary eyes, that Spock had never once seen. "I believe she would say.....'do not try to.'"_

The whisper faded away and Jim realized that he had stopped breathing. He inhaled shakily, hearing the ragged hitch of his breath, and he felt a resounding pang of guilt and regret that was very much his own.

He'd considered apologizing to Spock after Nero, during one of the brief lulls between alternating waves of white-toothed officials and the clamoring press, but had decided that words could never be enough for what he'd done...what he'd said. That it had been Spock's own idea, in a way, didn't make it any better either.

And saying those things back in his quarters, seized by whatever mad thing had gripped him in his weakness, had brought back that same expression that Jim had never wanted to see on Spock's face ever again. That flash of surprised hurt that had flickered between the cracks on that impenetrable mask of calmness had struck Jim hard, prodded at him to apologize every time he saw his first officer.

He'd wanted to say something before that briefing, had even considered pulling Spock aside after shift. But McCoy had thwarted that effort, intentionally or not, and Jim felt all the worse for the burst of relief that had instantly followed the doctor’s arrival.

He would find Spock now, he decided, gripped by a sudden conviction as he left the transporter room and headed up through the decks. What he would say, he had no idea, but he'd do whatever it'd take. Because, in the end, he had to make this right between them again.

It’ll be fine, he told himself firmly as he turned the corner towards the bridge. A wave of dizziness gripped him at the sudden change in direction, and he forced it back determinedly. He'd done harder things before, surely this would be-

He froze as soon as he stepped around the corner, almost losing his balance as he swiveled to avoid running straight into his first officer. He felt abruptly sick to the stomach, like the floor was rolling to his feet, and his thoughts flitted back to Scotty’s accented words of advice about needing rest.

Spock blinked at him bemusedly from where he'd been about to enter the bridge, a PADD tucked beneath his arm and the very air of composure about him, if he hadn't stopped himself at the sight of Jim emerging mere feet away.

"Captain," the Vulcan said at last, when it became evident that Jim wasn't going to speak first.

"Mr. Spock," Jim responded warily, relieved to find that his brief nausea was receding again.

Spock gave him a measuring look, eyes flicking over him in a careful scan. "Are you...well?"

"Couldn't be better," Jim muttered, sounding as awkward as he felt.

There was a moment in which Spock watched him almost expectantly, before his expression gained a touch of resignation and he said, "If my presence is not required here, Captain, I shall return to my post."

He made to step towards the bridge, and Jim unthinkingly blurted, "Wait."

Spock stopped instantly, eyes shifting to meet Jim’s, and Jim swallowed uncomfortably. “Back then," he said hesitantly, his voice resounding too loudly to his own ears in the fragile silence. “I mean, after that hologram. I......I said some things to you that I didn't...well, that I didn't mean to."

Spock looked at him, his face unreadable, and waited.

Jim exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to fiddle uncomfortably with his sleeves. This wasn't how he'd imagined it going at all, but then again, when had anything that had to do with him and Spock ever been easy?

"I'm sorry," he said at last, feeling an odd sense of conflicted relief at the admission. "That wasn't right of me and I- I just wanted you to know that, before...." he trailed off uncertainly, not quite knowing what he'd been planning to say, and glanced up at Spock apprehensively.

Spock stared back, the corner of his mouth twitching once oddly before settling again, and Jim realized that this was probably the most off guard he’d seen the Vulcan. Then the moment was over and Spock frowned slightly, clearly searching for and coming up with nothing to say in response.

Somehow this, of all things, managed to reassure Jim more than anything else. He sighed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling in more relief than exasperation, and said, “All right, then.”

He strode towards the bridge without looking back, feeling Spock’s nonplussed stare behind him before the Vulcan eventually followed.

Chekov called out a distracted greeting when they entered, curly hair flopping over his eyes as he perused his console. They were passing through a particularly nasty bit of magnetic field, nothing overly threatening, but enough trouble to be a nuisance to the pilots. Sulu was hunched over his own console with a pinched frown of concentration, fingers fiddling over the controls in a meticulous flutter. Jim was more relieved than concerned that he had little to do other than let the two wrestle it out with the field, and he thought that he'd be guilty about it if he wasn't so.....so _tired_.

He settled down in his seat, shifting stiffly against the back of the chair. It was awkward, yes, but it’d keep him awake and that was all that mattered at the moment. He let his gaze drift across the bridge, trying to prevent himself from sagging back into the chair and passing out, no matter how uncomfortable the thing was behind him.

He passed over Sulu and Chekov, the corner of his mouth lifting in absent amusement as the latter loosed a flurry of Russian expletives under his breath at what was no doubt some minute mistake in his calculations. Carol was busy at her own station- Dr. Marcus, he corrected himself- and she glanced up at him with a small smile when she noticed his wandering stare.

If she thought anything looked off about him, she didn’t show it. He wasn’t exactly feeling like his usual self right now, no matter how much Jim hated to admit it. Just a few seconds, he reasoned, closing his eyes. Already, the darkness was better than the brightness of the illuminated bridge, with all its consoles and screens and flickering switches. He could gradually feel the tension in his body easing out, starting from the tight muscles around his eyes and the base of his neck.

Just a few more seconds….it wouldn’t hurt….he’d be alert again in just a moment more…

His head dipped forward and Jim snapped back to awareness, eyes flying open as his pulse skyrocketed in a confused surge before he remembered where he was.

“Captain?” Uhura inquired from behind him, concern evident in her voice.

“How long…” His throat was dry and he swallowed. Most of the crew seemed to be trying to peek at him without turning their heads, and there was something in the way Sulu’s shoulders were up around his ears that spoke suspiciously of guilt. “How long was I out?”

“Approximately twenty-six point three minutes, Captain,” Spock answered, and Jim felt his chest tighten conflictingly at the sound of his voice. Then the implication of his words struck, and he stared around the bridge incredulously.

“Why didn’t anyone wake me?” Jim demanded, unable to restrain his irritation. He didn’t _want_ to sleep- it was the last thing he wanted to do right now, with the memorial deadline hanging over their heads. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by whatever unconsciousness would bring on its unpredictable waves.

Nobody answered, but he could see Chekov’s ears turning red even from where he sat, and Jim made a disgruntled sound. “Really?”

“I believe it is fully within my obligation as first officer to advise you to get some rest, Captain,” Spock said, and Jim swiveled around to give him an exasperated glare. There were some things he _hadn't_ missed about Spock, after all. "It is irrational for you to remain on duty in such a state."

Jim glowered, but it was more for show than anything else.

"I apologize if you are displeased,” Spock continued evenly, his brows drawn in what Jim thought was a mildly disapproving frown. "I merely thought it practical that the commanding officer be well-rested before the initiation of his strategies."

Jim opened his mouth automatically to tell Spock where he could stick his practicality, and then stopped short. It wasn't disapproval he was seeing in his first officer's face, he realized abruptly. Spock was worried about him, so much that it actually showed on the physical level. His stomach felt odd at the thought, flipping and tugging uncomfortably, and he swallowed his words, saying instead, "All right."

He wasn't sure who was more surprised, Spock or himself. The rest of the crew was keeping remarkably disinterested expressions, though he couldn't help but notice that most of the activity on the bridge had ceased.

"You....agree," Spock stated, his eyebrows tilting upwards in poorly concealed disbelief.

"I agree," Jim affirmed easily, inexplicably satisfied by the response, and he pushed himself up from his chair with a slight groan. "You have the conn, Mr. Spock. I'll be in my quarters." he wouldn't be sleeping, though.

…

In the end, he was barely halfway to his quarters when he received a comm from McCoy, ordering him to the medbay by threat of increased physicals scheduling if he wasn’t there in three minutes. Jim briefly toyed with the idea of excusing himself; he wasn’t in the mood to be poked and prodded at the moment, no matter how good of a friend Bones was.

He found himself standing in front of the medbay doors before the three minutes were up anyway, readying himself for whatever wrath he’d managed to incur in the doctor now.

"Here," McCoy called out, as soon as the doors slid open, before tossing something towards him.

Jim was absurdly proud that he managed to catch the object before it hit his face, seeing as how his vision was starting to go blurry around the edges. As it was, he fumbled it slightly, but was quick to recover, hoping McCoy hadn't noticed the unusual delay in reflexes.

"What's this?" he asked, frowning down at the object in his hand. It looked like nothing more than a flat white cuff, with a single silver bar running around the edge.

"Put it on," McCoy instructed, pantomiming slipping something onto his left wrist. "It's going to monitor your sleep patterns."

Jim stared down at the cuff, his brain refusing to compute its significance. "Why...?"

McCoy gave an impatient huff, stepping over and snapping the cuff on for Jim. "You're off duty, genius. Go grab some sleep."

Jim instantly began to tug at the cuff, trying to work it off his hand. "No."

"What are you- leave that alone," McCoy said irritably, slapping Jim's hand away. Jim ignored him, pulling at the band again.

"Get this thing off me, Bones," Jim demanded, thrusting his wrist at the doctor. "I don't need it."

McCoy muttered something under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest with the air of someone about to give a dire pronouncement. “Jim, for someone as brilliant as you, you’re awfully good at being an idiot,” he said.

“Am not,” Jim said automatically in rebuttal.

“Yeah?” McCoy growled, his face reddening slowly. “You think I _like_ running around putting you back together after you run yourself into the ground? You think this mission is something you can just blow off on a half tank? And you’re not even that, judging by the look of you!” He jabbed a finger at Jim's chest, bumping the other man back a step. "You're going to get some rest, if I have to hypo you into it!"

"You-" Jim sputtered, annoyance growing swiftly into anger. "You're insane!"

"I care about you!" McCoy snapped back. "Like everyone else on this ship other than, apparently, yourself. When was the last time you actually slept, Jim?"

Jim swallowed his protests and stopped to think, and when McCoy’s scowl deepened at his hesitation, he realized ruefully that perhaps having to think about it at all was an answer in itself. “First night out of the medbay,” he confessed. “Before the hail. Bones, I can explain,” he said hastily, seeing the growing indignation across McCoy’s face.

Then, surprisingly, the doctor's anger faded to be replaced by something softer and more resigned. "Trouble sleeping?" McCoy asked, peering at Jim intently.

Jim winced internally. "Something like that."

"Dreams?" McCoy inquired, his eyes watching Jim shrewdly. Moments like these, Jim almost wished Bones wasn't as intuitive as he was, and he quietly resigned himself to the interrogation he knew was coming.

"They're not that bad," he murmured, rubbing at his eyes and feeling them sting and throb under his fingers. "It's nothing, just me being stupid, like you said."

McCoy hummed, unconvinced, and when Jim opened his eyes again, he saw the doctor was wearing an odd expression, worry and enlightenment and something else altogether. “I’ve had my share of dreams, kid, don’t get me wrong. But…” he bit his lip, clearly hesitant to continue, then gingerly went on, “You don’t think it’s because of your…circumstances, do you?”

Jim eyed him suspiciously, not at all reassured by the dodginess of the question. “What’re you on about?”

McCoy looked instantly regretful that he had even spoken, starting to shake his head. “Noth-“

“Did Spock say something to you?” Jim demanded, suddenly anxious.

“Wasn’t Spock,” McCoy said defensively, sounding as cornered as he looked. “It just…happened.” At Jim’s expression, McCoy finally relented, his gaze flicking down contritely for a moment before lifting stubbornly again.

“I know, Jim,” he said, and the heavy insinuation with which he uttered the words should have been enough to alert Jim to their implication. “I know what happened with Frank.”

Jim tensed instantly, too shocked to process anything else McCoy might have said afterwards. It was all he could do to stay upright, frozen to the spot as the doctor rushed on to explain, telling him how he’d pulled up medical records because he was worried, and when he’d seen the files…

He knew. They knew, because if McCoy had managed to find out, Spock did as well, if not more than Jim had imagined.

And for once, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

McCoy seemed to be also getting frustrated by his silence, finally snapping, “Damn it, would you say something?!”

“What do you want me to say?” Jim responded mechanically, knowing how to do that much, at least.

McCoy threw his hands in the air in impotent exasperation. “I don’t know, anything. Yell at me if you need to, I think I’ve deserved that much. Just,” he stumbled helplessly. “Just don’t stand there like that.” He swallowed, raking a nervous hand through his hair and mussing the neat coif.

“Aren’t you angry?” McCoy added, with genuine bewilderment. He didn’t like seeing Jim like this, all quiet and pale and shaken to the core. If he’d known that it would….well, he didn’t think he’d do anything differently, but knowing that he wouldn’t only made everything that much worse.

"I'm tired," Jim said at last, his voice small and faded. "I'm tired, Bones."

He looked at his friend a moment longer, eyes hollow and empty of anything that McCoy recognized. He'd be glad to see a spark of anger, something to fill that void, but then Jim was turning away towards the doors, his shoulders turned in and his steps lagging. The cuff on his wrist glinted, but he seemed to have already forgotten its presence entirely.

...

There were seven hours left before arrival, nine before the beginning of the memorial ceremony. The countdown was ticking fast, but it was a muted descent that nestled next to Jim’s heartbeat. Something he was aware of, but couldn’t afford to dread.

He could only wish that his mind was as clean-cut, as infallible, every thought in its own place and time. At least he felt better physically now, having showered and put on fresh clothes. On second thought, he'd made the change from normal civilian clothing to his uniform trousers and undershirt, the weight of duty to ground him. To remind him of what was truly important, at the end of the day.

The cuff around his wrist felt more and more like a shackle with each passing moment, and he grimaced silently whenever he caught glimpse of it. It was only a matter of time now before McCoy came careening in his quarters, demanding why he hadn’t gone to sleep like he was supposed to a long time ago.

The mug in his hand was cooling rapidly as he stared blankly into its contents, and he raised it automatically to his lips. The tea wasn’t all that bad, he’d already realized, the underlying bitterness just enough to settle his stomach and spread a glowing warmth tingling through his limbs. He hadn’t even known he’d been craving it until he was standing in front of the food replicator, fingers moving to punch in the commands before his brain had managed to catch up.

Maybe Bones would like it.

He still couldn't think about his friend without a feeling of strangled conflict, relief warring with resentment that culminated in a massive headache that the tea was just starting to take the edge off of. He could understand why Spock drank the stuff now, he thought. All that logic couldn't possibly come without some cost of comfort.

"Lights to eighty-percent," he ordered, hoping the dimmed lighting would better soothe the dull ache behind his eyes. He felt both tight and wrung out at the same time, his steps slow as he made his way across the room to the window.

The view from his quarters was narrow and limited, the strip of glass barely a foot tall and circling around half of the room. He could see the faint outline of his own reflection among the stars as he gazed out, pondering distantly how he’d managed to come so far without moving forward at all. In the end, he was back where he’d begun, spinning slowly in the universe with no gravity, no direction.

Jim closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the window with a sigh. The glass was cold, smooth, perfectly logical in its design, everything he envied in Spock now. If he wasn’t human, he’d know what to do now. What to think.

There was a sudden beep at his door, and he ignored it, not wanting to be interrupted. A second beep followed, this one long and insistent as if someone was holding down the call button, and he sighed, eyes opening. It could only be one person, he knew, and if he was unfortunate enough, it'd be the both of them.

It seemed like the universe had only one constant, in that it never ceased to present him with the worst case scenario. Jim had no sooner opened the door before McCoy strode in with Spock in tow, an expression of grim disapproval on his face.

“Bones,” Jim said evenly, taking a step back as McCoy advanced on him. "To be honest, I expected you to come sooner." He eyed Spock pointedly, but neither one of them excused his presence and he returned his attention to McCoy.

"It's not on," McCoy said, gesturing impatiently at the cuff. "Wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I see that was a mistake on my part." He looked ready to go on, but his eyes lit upon the mug in Jim's hand, his irritation overwhelmed briefly by confusion. "What's that?"

"Tea," Jim shrugged, hefting the mug dismissively. What remained of its contents sloshed quietly, and Spock shifted minutely in Jim's peripheral.

McCoy gave him a peculiar look, as if doubting his devolving sanity, and said slowly, "You don't drink...tea."

Jim shrugged again, an offhanded lift of his shoulder. "Guess I do now."

McCoy still looked more than a little unconvinced, but his gaze moved suspiciously between Spock's carefully neutral expression and Jim's absent contemplation of the mug in his hand. He seemed to finally come to his own conclusions, however, offering a halfhearted scoff in Spock's direction. "Next thing you know, you'll be taking up bourbon."

Spock granted McCoy a suitably puzzled glance at this, but said nothing, his hands still clasped quietly behind his back.

McCoy turned back to Jim, somber once more as his eyes flicked down to the younger man's wrist. "I wasn't kidding about that hypo you know," McCoy told him. "It'll put you under in seconds. You won't remember any dreams, if you have any at all."

Jim considered it for a moment, trying to imagine a few dreamless hours. "No," he said at length, with a small shake of his head.

McCoy exhaled heavily, equally helpless and confused. "Damn it, I can't help if you don't let me." He reached out to place a hand on Jim's shoulder, a gesture they'd repeated many times over the years, but this time, Jim flinched away unconsciously from the touch. McCoy froze instantly, a wounded expression crossing his features before understanding settled in.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice so heavy with sincerity that it almost shook beneath the weight. "Jim, I'm sorry I did that. I should have just asked, or maybe I should’ve just minded my own business, but I just...." He scowled, irritated at himself now for being unable to articulate his remorse.

There was a short pause, Jim's eyes still steadily fixed on his mug and Spock glancing carefully at the struggling doctor.

McCoy finally went on, "I thought that if I....if I knew more, maybe there was something I could-"

"Bones, I get why you did it," Jim sighed, raising his eyes from the mug at last. "I brought it on myself, really. It was my fault that I got in that situation back on that planet, my stupid idea that dragged you both into all this." McCoy opened his mouth, as if to protest, and Jim pressed on, "You deserve to know, after everything that's happened."

Neither of them responded, and the silence seemed to swell until Jim's ears were ringing with it. He shook his head, as much in denial as wanting to clear his mind, and turned away, taking the few steps to stop by the window again, leaving the mug on the table as he passed.

He stared out through the glass, not so much as seeing the stars but the darkness in between. He’d followed the stars his whole life, it seemed, but not once had he ever considered that they might be as lost as he was, spinning away out there in that skyless void.

He could hear McCoy's quiet breaths behind him and nothing at all from Spock, but he knew just as certainly where the Vulcan stood. They were waiting for him to speak, he knew, had been waiting for him a long time. It'd taken him just as long to realize that he did have something to say, after all, something he'd never said aloud outside from the secret whispers to himself in the cover of darkness.

“I hated her,” Jim said, and the sound of his own words was both a relief and a burden. He swallowed before he continued, gazing helplessly before him. “Hated her for leaving me. Leaving me with _him_." The words were coming easier than he had feared, and he went on, "I used to do everything right, before Sam left....I never talked back, did well in school, I was a good kid." Jim gave a mirthless laugh. "Practically sucked up to that bastard, and somehow he still found a reason to put me in the hospital."

Jim paused and frowned slightly as an unpleasant memory gradually came to light. "It was worse for Sam, though. Frank got to him real bad. Couldn't blame him for running when he did, really, but I hated him too for not taking me with him. Then I sent that damn car into the canyon and it all went to hell from there.”

He finally turned away from the window, fingers shifting at his sides as if not certain whether to curl into fists or not. McCoy was watching him worriedly, speechless at last, and Jim could see how much just hearing this was hurting him. Bones had always felt too much, almost astoundingly so for a man who claimed perpetual disdain on a daily basis, and it was something Jim both envied and pitied him for.

Spock stood beside him, his mask the thinnest Jim had ever seen it, so close to surrendering the facade that he could practically see the emotions surging beneath. He knew, Jim realized. Spock knew what he was saying, had probably experienced it for himself already, he’d felt the bruising blows and heard the drunken jeers above his broken body. And still he listened.

"My mom knew about it," Jim said, and the bitterness he tasted afterwards could have been from the tea or himself. "There was no way she didn't suspect- there were only so many times I could say that I fell off my bike. And when Sam left...when it got worse, she had to know then. But she never said anything.

I didn’t really get it at first. I wasn't an idiot, I knew what was happening, but I still thought that it was my fault somehow. Like I'd let her down and that's why she never said a word. 'Course, I know now, but...." He glanced over at Spock, a hint of a humorless smile sweeping across his face, "You were right when you said I never knew her at all."

Spock blinked, then looked away, and Jim felt a small pang of guilt for saying it, even if it was the truth. He could feel his expression soften slightly as he regarded his friend with conflicted understanding, gearing himself up for his next words.

"If I was wrong about her...who says I'm not wrong about everything?" Jim asked quietly, not really expecting an answer or denial. "I…I don’t know what to think anymore, Spock. I-” He took a shuddering breath, staring helplessly at the floor. “I wish…”

Then he stopped short, lifting his head to look at his first officer with a sudden glint of realization in his eyes. "But you could help.”

“What are you talking about?” McCoy asked warily, not liking the look on Jim’s face one bit. "Jim, what-”

“He could do it, Bones,” Jim said slowly, the idea coming together even as he spoke. “If the meld can play with our memories like this…don’t you see? He could remove those memories altogether, so I wouldn’t have to remember.”

“Jim,” McCoy started, looking apprehensive, but Spock beat him to it.

“I cannot do that, Jim," the Vulcan said solemnly. “I am sorry.”

Jim seemed to stumble momentarily, but he didn't give up. "Why not?"

“It is not customary to do so," Spock tried, looking almost trapped as he attempted to explain. “You must understand, Jim, aside from the fact that such a procedure is not without great risk, the consequences will alter your very being."

“He’s right, you know,” McCoy said quietly. “You wouldn’t be who you are today, if none of that had happened."

"Then how can I stop feeling this way?" Jim asked, his voice thick with something edging on despair.

"You don't," McCoy said, more out of instinct than any premeditated thought.

Jim drew in a shaky breath at his response and glanced away with a helplessness that caused an inexplicable ache in McCoy's chest.

"You can't forget it, but you can...quiet it down," McCoy finished, without taking his eyes off the younger man. "You can let it go."

Jim turned back towards McCoy, and the doctor glimpsed the shine of unshed tears in his eyes before he looked away again, arms folding across his chest in an instinctive maneuver. "I don't think...I'm not sure I can do that, Bones. I-" His voice broke and he stopped, brow furrowing in embarrassment.

There was a lingering pause while Spock watched Jim with an indiscernible expression, seeming to struggle with a decision of some kind. Then he suddenly moved forward, raising his hand from where it had been resting at his side, and Jim's entire body tensed for what he must have thought would be the touch of fingertips against his cheek. McCoy realized he had stopped breathing himself, feet rooted to the spot as he watched the Vulcan pause for a beat, his hand hovering close to Jim’s face.

McCoy felt a muffled protest rising in his throat, but he was unable to speak as Jim opened his eyes warily and, in that moment, Spock stepped forward and unexpectedly slid his hand around the back of Jim's head. His movements were made slightly clumsy by unfamiliarity, but the intent to reassure the other man was clear enough.

Jim stiffened in shock as soon as Spock's palm settled in place, his own hand coming up instinctively to grab at his first officer's wrist.

"Captain," Spock said then, his voice low and almost imploring as his eyes swept over Jim's face searchingly, and Jim faltered, his fingers stumbling to rest instead on the Vulcan's elbow.

"What," Jim started, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What-"

Then Spock was pulling him in, slowly, carefully, as if trying not to scare him away, and their foreheads came to rest together with a sense of finality that made McCoy's eyes soften.

He could see Jim gradually relaxing despite his visible struggle to contain himself, the tension seeping from his arms and shoulders as he leaned in and closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the Vulcan's elbow in a helpless gesture. It was a strange intimacy that was deeper than the physical, McCoy realized, something more innocent and devoted than he had thought Spock capable of.

There was something about the moment that reminded him of his time serving in rehabilitation centers as an intern. Seeing the way the soldiers there acted around each other, how they understood each other with just a look, or a touch, brothers who shared something deeper than blood- it was something he'd never forgotten and seeing it now... he swallowed as a lump rose unbidden in his throat. He'd always thought of Jim as his kid brother, but this was something more. Something all-encompassing that prickled at the corners of his eyes and couldn't be described by mere words.

It was almost deafeningly quiet in the room, but for the muted sound of Jim's slowing breaths and the ever-present hum of the _Enterprise_ around them. Then Spock cleared his throat, and McCoy watched as he examined Jim's face questioningly. "What are you afraid of?" came the unexpected question, so quietly that McCoy had to strain to hear it.

Jim stilled, blinking in surprise as he struggled to form a response. When he said nothing, Spock continued. "There is strength in your humanity, Jim," he said, his voice still a low murmur. "It is, perhaps, the most admirable of your qualities." McCoy waited for an answer, but Jim was completely motionless as Spock went on. "I was told once that it is not necessary to...to attempt to suppress it."

“Don’t…” Jim began, his voice slightly unsteady as he stumbled to a confused halt. “You can’t just tell me to-”

McCoy was stepping closer before he knew it himself, urged on by every protective instinct within him that had called him to be a healer from the beginning. “Jim, it’s all right,” he said, and his voice seemed to snap Jim out of whatever daze he had sunken into.

Jim pushed away from Spock quickly, and shook his head in what McCoy could only interpret as denial. The Vulcan lowered his hand, a flicker of bewilderment passing over his unguarded face for a split second at the reaction before he looked up, his expression softening slightly. "Jim," he began.

Jim cut him off with a sharp gesture and averted his gaze, looking down and rubbing his eyes with his fingers. "No, don't. Just-" He stepped back blindly and turned away, stopping abruptly when he realized that he was face-to-face with McCoy.

“Move, Bones,” Jim said shortly, obviously hoping the warning in his tone was enough to get the man out of his way, but the doctor merely looked at him determinedly for a second.

"No," he answered, crossing his arms emphatically, and it only served to heighten Jim’s frustration.

“Come on, Bones, I'm serious-” he snapped.                           

McCoy cut him off by suddenly moving forward, wrapping his arms around Jim in a gruff embrace. Jim stood there, frozen in shock, then raised his hands uncertainly, pressing them against McCoy’s sides in an attempt to move him away. “Bones-”

"None of this is on you, you understand?” McCoy said, his voice slightly muffled by Jim’s shoulder. “It's not your fault, Jim."

Jim's breath caught in his throat, his fingers digging unconsciously into the other man's shirt. "What are you doing?" he asked numbly, his voice edged in confused panic. 

McCoy merely tightened his hold in response, and Jim hesitated, his hands shifting at the doctor's back as if uncertain whether to push him away or hold on. Then, McCoy heard a trembling inhale by his ear and he took a deep breath, forcing back his own teeming emotions.

"Don't," Jim said again, sounding more vulnerable in that moment then McCoy had ever heard him. " _Please_..." The last word trailed off in a broken whisper that wrenched at McCoy's heart. His lip trembled despite himself, breaking through his restraint briefly before he pulled his composure back together, and he held Jim tighter, trying to silently convey that he wasn't going to leave him. Neither of them were.

"It's all right," McCoy muttered, and Jim curled closer to him involuntarily. "You said you were afraid of not feeling?" he murmured, rubbing Jim's back absently as he spoke. "Well, you can feel this, right?"

Jim didn’t answer, but his breath hitched sharply, and despite his efforts to stifle any further noise, something in him finally gave in.

McCoy felt his heart drop at the sound of the first sob, a tremulous breath beside his ear, and he looked up, meeting Spock's gaze as the Vulcan instinctively came closer.

The next sob was less restrained than the first, Jim's movements becoming increasingly more desperate as he clung to McCoy with bruising force, trying to press even closer. McCoy wavered on his feet slightly before he tucked Jim's head beneath his chin, holding him up when the other man leaned forward heavily, as if his knees were threatening to give out. Spock stepped beside him, his shoulder brushing ever so slightly against the doctor's as he moved. Then, after a moment of consideration, the Vulcan raised his hand, brushing the back of Jim's head in a gesture of solidarity.

Gradually, the tension in Jim's body loosened as he began to cry in earnest, his sobs coming out in heavy, anguished gasps. McCoy moved a hand up to the back of Jim's head, holding it consolingly as the kid buried his face harder into the side of his neck.

"That's right. It's okay, just let it all out." McCoy dropped his hand down to rub between Jim’s shoulder blades reassuringly, feeling warm tears soaking through his shirt. "Let it out," he repeated. "You’ll be all right.” He lowered his face and pressed a brief kiss on the top of Jim’s head, propping his chin up afterwards in the mess of golden hair.

He wished he could be more certain of his own words. In all the years he’d known the kid, he’d never seen him like this before, finally giving in to the weight he'd been silently carrying for years, and McCoy was almost relieved to see it happen at last. He raised his eyes and met Spock’s gaze as the Vulcan glanced up from Jim’s shaking form with an expression that the doctor found he couldn’t ignore.

It was something McCoy was surprised to recognize at all, a glimmer of pride...a certain admiration in the way he regarded his captain. Because even in this, what anyone else or Jim himself would consider weakness, the man managed to be something more, something stronger than the circumstances that had forged him.

McCoy wasn’t sure how long Jim cried, and he realized with a sense of calmness that it wasn’t really important after all. Judging by the sudden understanding in Spock’s eyes when he looked over, the Vulcan felt the same way. It didn't matter...because the two of them would stay there for as long as they were needed.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Jim woke slowly, his mind struggling against waves of darkness that tugged at him insistently, lulling him into a half state of awareness. He could feel something light against his forehead, and he frowned in bleary confusion as he fought his way back to consciousness.

It was someone’s hand, he realized, brushing through his hair in a careful, rueful way that he immediately identified without having to open his eyes. "Bones...?" he mumbled.

"Hey." McCoy's hand withdrew, and Jim opened his eyes reluctantly. His friend was sitting by his bed, leaning over with his elbows propped on his knees, and regarding him warily with dark eyes. "Didn't want to wake you, but it's almost time."

Jim blinked, noticing that McCoy was in his dress uniform with the seams pressed neatly over his waist, the cut of the gray tunic emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders. The creases in his charcoal trousers were perfectly straight, and Jim noted abruptly that he hadn't seen Bones looking this distinguished since Pike's funeral. He frowned, trying to sit up, but merely succeeded in rolling onto his side. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, puzzling him for a few long seconds before realizing that he didn't remember even getting into bed.

"How...?"

"It was little trouble on my part, Captain," Spock's dry voice said, and Jim twisted around to see his first officer standing primly at a safe distance from the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. He was in his dress grays already as well, and Jim stared at him for a long moment, trying to force his mind back into coherence.

"Well, don't you two look sharp," he heard himself saying, voicing his thoughts automatically.

McCoy rolled his eyes, clearly uncomfortable in his high collar. "We'll be ready to beam down in a couple of hours," he said. "Don't look at me like that," he added, scowling at Jim's expression. "You needed the rest, trust me."

It was coming back now, in bits and pieces that Jim managed to put together. He could recall what had happened before he must have fallen asleep, and he felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. "I...I need to get dressed,” he muttered, pulling at the sheets over his legs. The edges had been folded beneath the mattress, he couldn’t help but notice, and he wondered whether it had been Bones or Spock who'd tucked him in.

His legs were a bit unsteady as he stood, the blood rushing down to his feet in a dizzying motion. McCoy blinked up at him, and Jim felt an inexplicable urge to hide. “Bathroom,” he mumbled, hurrying past McCoy’s bewildered stare, and the bathroom door closed behind him soon afterwards.

McCoy looked over at Spock when the muffled sounds of the shower reached his ears, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Did he just forget his clothes?”

“Indeed.” The Vulcan made a small sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, and he crossed the room to rummage through Jim’s drawers. McCoy watched as Spock pulled out Jim’s dress uniform and folded it neatly over the arm of a chair.

"You know your way around the place pretty well," he couldn't help but comment. "I don't think even Jim could've found that."

Spock's hands stilled halfway through smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on the gray tunic, and he glanced over at McCoy warily.

McCoy rolled his eyes, but it wasn't without some affection. "You've always known him better than anyone, Spock. Better than I do, I'm starting to think, with this meld."

Spock was quiet for a moment longer, and they listened together to the distant sound of rushing water before he eventually continued. "That is not entirely true," the Vulcan said, looking up again and meeting McCoy's gaze. "Your bond with the captain is indisputable, Doctor."

Caught unawares, McCoy opened and closed his mouth wordlessly as Spock went on, "When Jim was in need...it was you who offered what I could not. There is no other individual who could have assisted in the manner that you did." It was a compliment, in Spock's own way, and McCoy felt a muted pleasure at the realization.

"Y'know, I've got a name, Commander," he said, amused. "You call Jim by his name, don't you?"

Spock blinked slowly at him in consternation, and McCoy could've laughed at his expression, as if it was a revelation to the Vulcan.

A few minutes later, Jim finally emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and nothing but a towel around his waist, looking flushed and sheepish. It didn't take long before he caught sight of the clothes in the chair, and he gave Spock a slightly startled glance before lowering his gaze uncomfortably again.

"Thanks," he muttered, dripping a trail of water across the floor as he padded across the room and dropped the towel unceremoniously. After everything he'd already revealed in front of them, any ounce of modesty he still had was no longer a factor **.** He left the towel on the floor as he struggled into his briefs, and Spock shifted, looking as if he wanted to say something, but tactfully refrained.

"Sorry," Jim said at length, as he fastened his trousers and considered the rest of his uniform in the chair.

McCoy frowned, looking nonplussed. "I'm your doctor, Jim, s'nothing I haven't seen before-"

"No, not that," Jim gestured one-handedly, holding his shirt in the other. "I meant- before I fell asleep, I shouldn't have- like that..."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," McCoy said gruffly, looking almost as awkward as Jim felt, but his eyes were still soft as he regarded the younger man. "Bit of crying never did anyone harm."

Still unconvinced, Jim pointedly avoided looking at Spock, whose gaze he could feel from across the distance between them. He wasn't….angry anymore, no, but there was still something decidedly awkward between them. But it was a good kind of awkward, almost the same as it might have been before all this began, and Jim found himself being reluctantly comforted by it.

McCoy was still contemplating him. "You don't think we think any less of you for it, right?" he asked slowly.

Jim didn't answer, but something in his silence seemed to confirm McCoy's suspicions and the doctor sighed, shaking his head.

"It's like this, Jim. If it'd been me, or even Spock, if you can imagine it, would you have blamed us for it?"

"Of course not," Jim answered adamantly. "But-"

"There you go, then." McCoy gave Jim a pointed look and, after a moment, the younger man gave a small, hesitant smile.

"Okay."

Spock moved slightly, and Jim's eyes gravitated towards him automatically. "I have taken the liberty in organizing a shipwide shore leave after the memorial ceremony. It will certainly boost crew morale." What he left unsaid didn't need to be clarified.

They'd have to make it through the day first.

Something in the realization must have shown on his face, because McCoy leaned in closer then and asked, "You got any plans?"

"For leave?" Jim concentrated on fastening the front of his tunic, straightening it with a tug on the hem. "Nah. Thought I might air out the apartment or something. Maybe see the sights a bit. It's been a while since we've been back."

"Hmm." McCoy gave him a discerning look. "Anywhere specific in mind?"

Jim's mouth quirked self-consciously. "Nothing exotic, really, I think I've had enough of that for now....it'd be nice to see the ocean again, I think. Never really got tired of it."

"Farm boy," McCoy murmured.

"You're one to talk," Jim responded, the corner of his mouth lifting again humorously.

The chime of a comm sounded, and two pairs of eyes shifted to land on Spock. The Vulcan almost looked apologetic as he glanced at the screen briefly before snapping it shut again. "My presence is required elsewhere, Captain."

"All right." Jim rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck as he spoke, offering a tentative smile that Spock didn't seem to know how to return. "I'll see you later, then."

"Of course." Spock regarded Jim for a lingering moment before turning away to nod slightly at McCoy. "Leonard," he said deliberately, the name unfamiliar and strange coming from him, and McCoy tried to hide his amusement at the matching expression of confusion on his two commanding officers.

"You two have gotten friendly," Jim commented as soon as Spock had left, glancing over at McCoy in bemusement. "Should I be expecting an announcement?"

McCoy grinned broadly, crossing the room and slapping Jim good-naturedly on the back as he passed. "Jealousy's unbecoming of you, Jim. I'll be off, too, got some final arrangements to sort out."

Jim grunted noncommittally, struggling to hook his collar beneath his chin. After watching his efforts for a satisfying few seconds, McCoy sighed and reached over to help.

“Why didn’t you or Spock pull me off duty?” Jim blurted, finally voicing the thought that had been lurking at the back of his mind for some time. “I was emotionally unfit. Nobody would’ve questioned it if you’d claimed I was compromised.”

McCoy's fingers stilled on the collar's hooks, and he raised his eyes incredulously. "Would that have helped? It would have crushed you, Jim."

Jim pushed on insistently, ignoring the truth in McCoy's words. "Not if it came at the risk of my crew, Bones. I could've gotten us all killed, just because I couldn't keep my head-"

"But you didn't." McCoy finished his task, but then settled his hands on Jim's shoulders, giving him a hard stare. "You didn't, Jim, and that's what's important. And you'll get us out of this."

"But how could you have known I'd make the right call?" Jim asked, unable to restrain his doubt. "What if-"

"Because I trust you," McCoy said matter-of-factly, then added, "And so does Spock. And you've gotta trust us too when we say you can pull this off." He paused to take a breath, studying Jim's expression thoughtfully.

"How are you now?" he asked quietly, tightening his grip briefly. Jim was still beneath his hands, but when McCoy made to withdraw, the younger man caught his wrist and held on briefly.

"I'm fine," he answered, and for the first time in a long while, McCoy believed him.

…

_Captain's Log, Stardate....well, no matter how this all plays out, I suppose it'll go down in history somehow. Hopefully for the better._

_I'll admit that I'm still not sure if I did the right thing, believing my mo- my source. It's an understatement to say the last few days have been unpredictable, but even though I see a lot of things clearer now.....I still worry about this._

_Because it's not just me that'll be affected by this if it all goes south today, this is bigger than anything I'd ever imagined now. It's my crew down there, my medics, the thousands of civilians with family and friends and loved ones coming to honor my father and not knowing what the hell they're getting into._

_These terrorists, they say the_ Kelvin _sparked their revolution, but they don't consider how their actions today would taint her name._

_Dr. McCoy and Commander Spock have been instrumental in the preparations, of course. Further details have been given in the post-briefing log._

_I wish..._

_Well, wishing's useless, really. It's no good to think about what you could've done when you could be doing something better for your future._

_That's a good saying, I think Bones would appr-_

_I do this every time, go on and on like this, it's a bad habit that Spock's always told me to fix. Maybe one of these days, I will. He's good at fixing people. They both are._

_If we live through today, I'll have to treat them to a round._

_Kirk out._

…

“She’s ready when you are, Captain,” Mr. Scott said, and Spock heard Jim’s muffled reply not long afterwards. He could feel the young man’s curious stare on his back from the platforms, watching him converse with Lieutenant Uhura, and Spock felt a prickle of unbidden self-consciousness at the attention.

"You'll be careful," Uhura murmured, and it was not a question. She fiddled with Spock's collar as she spoke, under the pretense of adjusting its already perfect position, and Spock stood quietly through her meticulous administrations. It would bring her comfort, he knew, in a way that his obedient reassurances could not.

"You'll look after him," she added, more firmly as her gaze found his. There was an understanding there that put Spock at a rare loss for words, an insightful gleam in her eyes that raised his already considerable estimation of her perception yet again. He did not find it necessary to ask for clarification.

"I will," he said solemnly instead, and a quick smile touched her lips before she leaned up and kissed him. He was more than a little disappointed when she withdrew, but he nodded and pressed her hand in a gesture she knew did not come lightly.

Jim looked unnecessarily delighted as Spock climbed the steps to join him, and his smile only broadened when Spock informed him of that fact.

"Never knew you had it in you, Spock," he said, sounding almost admiring. Spock usually found it best to ignore the captain when he was in such moods, but he was feeling more indulgent than usual and so he merely looked over inquiringly.

"Making out with Uhura in the command chair," Jim said in a mock whisper, and Spock felt a very human urge to silence him as the man continued gleefully, "You've got quite the imagination, Commander."

"I assure you, no such incident has ever transpired, Captain," Spock said, staring resolutely ahead of him. Mr. Scott was taking an interminably long time to begin the transport process despite his initial claim, he could not help but think.

"But you thought about it," Jim said insistently.

"I would prefer it if you did not dwell on such things," Spock replied evenly. "Believe me when I say that I have done you the same courtesy."

Jim glanced at him oddly, eyeing him with suspicion.

"What sort of things are we talking about here?" he asked, and Spock's lip twitched in slight amusement.

It took Jim approximately three seconds to comprehend his meaning because he mumbled a curse, his ears flushing red as he stared straight ahead.

"Ready, Scotty," he called out, pointedly avoiding Spock's gaze, and the Vulcan allowed his smirk to grow a millimeter more.

"Energize."

…

It was a picturesque afternoon in San Francisco, the slight breeze from the bay keeping the air cool even with the dry heat. A scant layer of cloud cover drifted lazily across the sky, and Jim could've sworn that he spotted the _Enterprise_ for a split second, a pale speck in the expanse of bright blue.

The ceremony had drawn a large gathering, as usual. All three of the public tiers in the amphitheater were crammed to overflowing with standing civilians, thousands of milling heads bobbing against the white stone. The bottom ring was hardly better despite its smaller size, filled with seated officials around the memorial itself.

Jim had never liked the thing, to be honest.

It was a white marble monstrosity encased in glass and glinting in the sunlight, a reproduction of the _Kelvin_ in her prime perched on a cube hewn with the names of her last two captains. Jim had always thought they shouldn't have bothered with a statue. After all, his father hadn’t died for the ship; he’d died for eight hundred reasons that couldn’t be captured in mere stone.

"Captain?" Spock murmured at his side, and Jim blinked, tearing his eyes from the glittering monument to look around. His first officer was seated beside him, the both of them placed in the prime seating directly in front of the memorial.

To their left and right sat an assortment of ambassadors and commanders Jim vaguely remembered the ranks and names of, but had never spoken to before. Fortunately, the novelty of meeting the son of George Kirk had seemed to wear off quickly after the initial introductions, and he had contented himself with alternately watching the teeming crowds and checking the time restlessly.

Beside him, Spock was also scanning the mass of civilians with a seemingly casual eye, half of his face shadowed by the flat brim of his cap. The ceremony was due to begin in two minutes, and so far they had yet to spot any suspicious activity. Not that they knew what to look for.

Jim grimaced, remembering how well that had gone over at the meeting with the admirals just over a day ago.

_"You're saying that you have no idea whether Cetus will even show?" Komack demanded._

_"He's declared himself as the glorified leader of a revolution," Jim responded, struggling to maintain his cool professionalism. "There's no reason to believe that he'll sit out on this big of a hit."_

_Barnett cast an incredulous glance in his direction. "It's a suicide mission, Captain Kirk. If you think he’ll come willingly-"_

_"You didn't speak with him," Jim pointed out, ignoring McCoy's efforts to kick him under the table. By the way Spock blinked suddenly and shot a reproachful look to his left, the doctor had caught his shin instead. "You didn't see them on that planet. They're ready to die, every single one of them, it's an_ honor _for them. There’s no rationalizing with people like that."_

_He paused, looking around the table slowly and making sure he caught the eye of every official present. "He'll be there," he said, “And we’ll be ready for him."_

Granted, his confidence was wavering slightly now as he passed over the first ring again, searching for a certain demeanor among the civilians, a cold pair of steel-gray eyes. The top two rings were too crowded, too far away to deal any real damage, so they'd have to be close to the inner ring itself.

 _What if she lied?_ whispered the small voice in his head he'd been trying unsuccessfully to quell. _What if you're being played the fool-_

"No," he said aloud, and Spock looked at him oddly.

"Jim?" the Vulcan said softly, more concerned this time.

"Nothing," he muttered, pulling himself back together. Now wasn't the time to be distracted by his own doubts.

The first speaker was now mounting the small platform in front of the memorial, preparing to begin the ceremony. They had to hurry, had to find Cetus before-

"Seen anything?" Jim whispered to Spock, slipping a hand in his own pocket casually as he spoke. The object bumping against his fingers was small and cylindrical, fitting neatly in his palm, and he squeezed it restlessly as he looked over the crowd once more.

_"Bones, I need a favor."_

_McCoy looked at him suspiciously, setting down the hypospray he'd been loading and turning towards him. "What?"_

_He shifted in the doorway, not wanting to linger but acknowledging the necessity of it. "You're the only medical professional who's handled this bomb....seen what it can do. I'd say you're the closest thing we've got to an expert on it, wouldn't you?"_

_McCoy looked slightly alarmed. "Jim, I'm no expert-"_

_"Please, Bones." He moved a little closer, searching McCoy's face beseechingly. "Just hear me out."_

"Nothing of significance yet," Spock murmured in response, his tone casual despite the overlying tension Jim could sense even through the space between them.

"Keep looking," he said, not knowing what else to do, and Spock dipped his head in a shallow nod just as the fanfare began to play. The crowd began to settle down, a hushed silence rising expectantly up through the tiers, and Jim shifted uneasily in his seat. The sun suddenly seemed very warm, searing the back of his neck and doing nothing to cull his impatience.

"On this day," the opening speaker began, but Jim had already stopped listening. His gaze had settled instead on a lone figure in the back of the first ring, just the edge of a dark hood and shoulder showing. There was something not quite right, he thought uncertainly. The figure was too still, Jim realized, his head directed not at the memorial, but towards...

Then the crowd parted slightly and he caught a glimpse of a pale face, a glint of silver hair, empty eyes catching his own knowingly even as a gloved hand rose to reach inside that plain black jacket-

Jim was surging out of his seat before his mind could catch up, his hand clenching around the device in his pocket. He thought he might have shouted something, judging by the way his throat ached afterwards, but his ears were filled with the pounding of his own heart. All he could see was that blank stare, widening slightly in surprise.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, flipping the catch on the top of the cylinder, then pressed the little blue switch-

_"Jim, that's crazy, I can't-"_

_"You can," Jim said adamantly. He caught McCoy's flailing hand by the wrist and squeezed hard to regain his friend's attention. "You can do it, Bones. I know it." He held his breath, eyes fixed on McCoy's face._

_The doctor stared at him for a long moment, eyes flickering hesitantly from Jim to his captive hand. "Give me twenty-four hours," he finally conceded, pulling away and picking up his abandoned hypospray again. "And I'll need the labs."_

The device beeped once, the slightest tremor quivering through his hand, and Cetus's expression faltered slightly.

Time seemed to have stretched, and yet everything was happening almost too fast for Jim to comprehend. Spock was at his side now, making for the first ring, there were panicked shouts of confusion from the spectators and the officials, and someone was distantly bellowing for everyone to calm down.

Jim blinked and realized he'd lost Cetus in the crowd again. A bewildered ambassador stumbled into him, knocking him forward, and by the time he'd regained his balance, McCoy was speaking urgently in his earpiece.

_"Jim, I think it did its job. The bioelectric wave managed to knock out the bombs within half a kilometer's radius- I hope no one there's got any of those decrepit pacemakers in, last thing we need is some civilian keeling ov-"_

"Bones," Jim said sharply, dodging another reeling officer. He'd lost Spock too, somewhere in the throng. Above him, on the fringes of the amphitheater, he could make out the security hemming the people in, keeping them within the rings. "How many?"

_"Twelve. How's the calibration going, kid?"_

It took Jim a moment to realize that McCoy was actually addressing Chekov, as he heard the young Russian's muffled voice, " _Is coming along, Doctor- Ah, there! Keptin, we've secured ze coordinates-"_

"Good, beam the bastards u-" A sharp crack cut Jim off, and he ducked automatically even though the shot had come nowhere near him. He knew what it was instinctively, even though he’d never heard the like before- there was something too overly destructive about the sound to be anything else. There was a startled shout and Jim caught glimpse of a man crumpling into the inner ring as he straightened. On the first tier, the hooded figure lowered his weapon, a clunky black rifle that Jim recognized dimly from history vids.

There was an odd moment in which the crowd seemed to freeze, a flicker of hesitation before a wave of panic rumbled up through the rings, swelling in volume and confusion as the civilians on the first tier broke ranks in panic.

Cursing, he opened a direct comm channel to the security members dispersed among the crowd. “Lock down on all suspects _now_ , they’re armed with old-gen weapons- Chekov, relay the coordinates to this frequency.” Jim barely paused for a flustered, “ _Aye, sir,”_ before pulling his phaser from where it’d been tucked out of sight beneath his tunic.

“Bones, change of plans,” he said, pushing an admiral behind a row of seats. “We need the medic unit down here now. We’ve had casualties-” Another volley of shots and resulting screams drowned out the rest of his words, and he pressed the earpiece harder against his ear just in time to catch,  _“-my way, Jim.”_  The channel cut off abruptly, and he could only hope that McCoy would be here soon. 

Already, he could feel his plan trickling down the drain.

He had to find Cetus. Had to end all of this before it fell even more apart. He stepped forward and froze as a shot whistled through the air, almost skimming against his temple as it flew past. The old-fashioned bullet shattered the glass case around the memorial with a crash, and he could feel sharp pieces bouncing off his shoulders and back as he stumbled forward. Something warm trickled down the side of his neck, and when he touched his hand to his cheek automatically, his fingers came away smeared with red.

The terrorist who had fired the shot stood fifty feet away on the second ring, his hood fallen back to reveal a shaved head and glinting steel in his ears. Seeing Jim still standing, he raised his gun again, and Jim moved without thinking.

His shot took the terrorist in the chest, and he barely had time to register the surprised expression on the man’s face before he toppled over the edge of the second tier onto the first, where two security officers immediately apprehended him.

Jim took a moment and just breathed, trying to calm his racing heart. His phaser suddenly felt heavier in his hand, his feet leaden amidst glittering shards and- his stomach lurched- a curl of dark blood creeping across the inner ring from the first victim.

The crowds had run rampant, fueled by fear and ringing shots still echoing around the amphitheater. Jim could make out several of his men subduing the terrorists, directed by the surveillance crew from above-

_"After the bioelectric wave knocks out the bombs, the flares from the deactivation should let us lock onto their locations," Jim said, jabbing his finger at the blueprints of the amphitheater. "And we'll beam them up from there. But if it fails..." he trailed off, staring absently at the plans. This was what he had given the admirals in the briefing, but a tendril of doubt still nudged at him even now. There was nothing foolproof about this plan, and everything hinged on the success of McCoy's workmanship._

_"And if it fails?" Spock prompted instantly._

_"Ever the optimist," Jim murmured before pointing at the charts again."If it fails, Mr. Spock, we'll manually divide the rings among five surveillance operators. Two on the inner rings, three on the largest. The signatures should still register on our locators and we'll pinpoint them to the ground units."_

_"And I'll be waiting here, I suppose," McCoy grunted, sounding displeased. "Waiting to patch up your sorry asses afterwards."_

_Jim turned to look at him seriously, struggling beneath the weight of his next words, "We'll need you ready for transport at any time- who knows when they'll strike. But, if we need you on the ground, Bones, it'll be the worst possible scenario."_

The blood had reached his feet, curling around the toe of his shoe, and Jim leaped back just as a medic materialized inches from where he'd been standing.

"Captain," the medic said efficiently, as soon as he'd fully solidified. "Are you-"

"Get down!" Jim yanked him aside by the collar as a stray bullet ricocheted off the memorial, chipping the body of the _Kelvin_ as it went.

"Thank you, sir," the medic said breathlessly as they resurfaced, his face somehow managing to flush and pale at the same time. "I-"

"My pleasure," Jim said, clapping his shoulder and spinning him around. "As you were, Johnson, we've got civilians down." He didn't stay for the medic's affirmation, rushing around the memorial instead to take stock of the situation on the other side.

 _"Six down, sir,"_ Chekov's voice chimed in his ear, the comm channel suddenly crackling to life. _"Security's begun ewacuation on ze west side, they're requesting confirmation to begin on ze northwest entrance as well, sir."_

Jim hunched down behind the memorial, trying to keep an eye out for the remaining two terrorists while gathering his thoughts. The civilians had to be led to safety, but the odds of a terrorist slipping out...what if Cetus was among them?

 _"Keptin!"_ Chekov's voice snapped him from his reverie. _"He's coming from your right, sir, watch-"_

Something collided hard with the side of Jim's head, sending his earpiece spinning, and he hit the ground hard, a white flare of pain briefly blinding him. His phaser spun out of his nerveless fingers, clattering across the ground, and he raised his head groggily as a black boot stopped the weapon's trajectory.

"Captain Kirk," drawled the voice, cold in a way that somehow surpassed its definition. "I can't truthfully claim to be surprised."

Jim blinked away the last shaky spots from his vision, trying to focus on the round muzzle of the gun aimed at his forehead. It didn't waver once as Cetus stepped forward, eyes glinting inscrutably above his slanted smile.

"You shouldn't have come," the terrorist informed him calmly, kneeling over Jim's prone form. His foot settled casually on Jim's outstretched arm, pinning his wrist to the ground with cruel ease. "But then again, you've always been prone to reckless maneuvers, haven't you?"

His ears still ringing from the force of the kick, Jim glared up with all the scorn he could muster in his condition. "You've already lost," he said, his voice hoarse from dust and tension. "The site's surrounded, your people are done."

Cetus increased the pressure on Jim's wrist, grinding the bones painfully. "Stupidly optimistic," he said quietly, a manic gleam entering his eyes. "You're as good a consolation prize as any."

Jim heard a distinct click as Cetus thumbed back the...the hammer, his brain supplied helpfully. His body didn't seem to have realized its impending demise, his pulse surprisingly steady as he gazed up at the muted triumph in Cetus's face.

"You know," Cetus said, almost conversationally, "that's the beauty of older technology." He hefted his weapon and straightened his arm, pressing the cold steel to Jim's forehead. "It's so much more...satisfying."

Jim saw it happen as if it were in slow motion, the flex of Cetus's wrist as tendons shifted and muscles tightened, the curl of his finger around the crude trigger, and in that moment- Jim _moved._

He dug his feet into the ground for leverage, free hand coming up and grabbing the end of the gun as he twisted up and onto his side. The gun discharged, sending a flash of heat against his palm and a jolt that shook up his arm to the shoulder, but the bullet sped harmlessly into the sky above them.

Cetus bit out a startled curse as Jim yanked the gun away and swung hard, catching the older man’s knee and sending him to the ground. He kicked out as he fell, clipping Jim’s shoulder and spinning him away as he tried to stand.

Jim thought he heard a muffled shout behind him as he hit the ground again, scraping his elbows on the concrete. _Spock_ …? he thought dazedly, trying to will his limbs to move. Cetus would be up again in no time, he had to-

Something was digging into his back, and Jim wrapped his fingers around it just as Cetus clambered to his feet, his eyes wild and his face darkening in rage.

“Captain!” he heard again, louder and more urgent this time. It was definitely Spock, and he could imagine his first officer fighting through the melee to reach him.

Cetus was striding towards him, bending to reach for his gun, and Jim pulled the phaser out from behind him. “Don’t move,” he rasped, with more authority than he felt.

Cetus froze, his eyes flickering between Jim’s face and the phaser with a calculating look that Jim didn’t like. But he abandoned his efforts to retrieve his weapon, straightening slowly with his hands spread to show their emptiness. “Shoot me, then,” he said, his voice regaining its smooth edge with every word. “Captain Kirk.”

Jim’s fingers tightened on his weapon as Cetus’s right foot edged forward, carrying him closer a tiny step. “Don’t move,” he said again.

Cetus ignored him, his left foot moving up to join the other. “Captain James Tiberius Kirk,” he said with relish. There was a smear of blood on his temple where he must have hit it against the ground, and the feverish tint to his skin did nothing to abate the madness beneath the surface of his eyes. “Hero of the Federation. You could end this right now.” Another slow slide forward.

“I said don’t move!” Jim raised his voice. The drying blood on his neck pulled on his skin as he tried to slow his breathing. Funny how he kept noticing the little things now, like the tremor in his fingers and the thumping of his heart as he stared into Cetus’s hollow eyes.

“Do it,” Cetus said softly, a challenging lift to his voice. “Come now, Captain, you know how easy it’d be. Change your phaser setting to kill. One squeeze...and it’d all be over.” He stepped forward again. "She warned you I would be here today, didn't she? The lovely Winona."

"Shut up," Jim said, his voice dipping low in anger. "Don't-"

Cetus considered him, his head tilting slightly to the side as he mused, "How do you think the news of James Kirk being affiliated with renegades will be received? How long do you think you'll be able to keep your ship?" He leaned forward, teeth bared in a grin. "Your crew? They won't last, you know, no matter what happens here today. My people will go after them, tear the walls of your ship down around them, send them into the black abyss you love so-"

Jim fired. The shot landed square in Cetus’s chest, and he doubled over onto the ground silently. Jim stared at his unconscious form for a moment, panting, his hands still shaking as he lowered the phaser. It clattered from his loose fingers onto the concrete, and he pushed himself slowly to his feet as he reached for his comm, turning away towards the fighting as he called for security.

He saw Spock first, finally shouldering past a couple of cringing civilians on the first tier, his gaze fixed determinedly on Jim. There was a scratch above his right eye, dripping green down the side of his face, and Jim blinked in consternation as he realized that Spock was calling his name.

“Wrong move, Captain,” said the deceptively soft voice, and Jim dropped the comm, turning towards Cetus even as he knew, with a sinking feeling that was altogether inevitable and unexpected, that it was too late.

The man had pushed himself up on his elbow, a section of his jacket burned away by the stun beam to reveal a glint of body armor. He’d managed to reach his gun, aiming this time with unmistakable intent, and Jim wondered how much more painful it’d be to die by a lead cartridge than any modern day laser. His finger tightened on the trigger, and Jim braced himself-

Then someone slammed into him from the side, pushing him to the ground with unrelenting strength, and Jim skidded across the concrete with a startled grunt, half crushed beneath the weight of the body that had knocked him down.

Jim barely had time to register that Spock had just tackled him before he instinctively reached down for his discarded phaser, rolling on his back and twisting upright to aim at Cetus. It was then that he heard a small sound of solid impact.

There was a frozen hitch in time before Cetus stiffened, swaying backwards from the force of the bullet. As Jim watched in disbelief, the other man finally doubled over and fell, landing flat on his back with his gun fallen at his side and his pale eyes staring sightlessly into the flawless sky. Jim stared, watching dazedly as the round hole in the man's left temple oozed dark blood into his silver hair.

He finally tore his gaze away to search for the shooter. The shot hadn't come from a phaser, and it'd be more of a coincidence that Cetus had been shot by a stray bullet from his own men than Jim was willing to believe in.

The inner ring was clear of any prominent marksmen, and the upper levels were still too crowded for him to make out much beyond the occasional struggle.

"Spock, did you see-" he started, turning towards his first officer.

Then, he froze, his heartbeat stuttering to a paralyzed halt for a split second. Spock was still on the ground, facing away from Jim, and he was suddenly aware of the warm dampness on his own hands, green streaked across his palms and fingertips.

"Spock?" he said uncertainly, his voice sounding distant and foreign to his own ears.

Spock twitched, a feeble motion that suddenly gripped Jim in fear. "Captain..." he said hoarsely, and it was then that Jim finally noticed the dark green stain spreading across the Vulcan's front, the way his hand clutched at his chest where the bullet had entered.

Jim exhaled shakily, his chest constricting with a painful twist. "No," he breathed.


	13. Chapter 13

_He froze instantly, his heartbeat stuttering to a paralyzed halt for a split second. Spock was still on the ground, facing away from Jim, and he was suddenly aware of the warm dampness on his own hands, green streaked across his palms and fingertips._

_"Spock?" he said uncertainly, his voice sounding distant and foreign to his own ears._

_Spock twitched, a feeble motion that suddenly gripped Jim in fear. "Captain..." he said hoarsely, and it was then that Jim finally noticed the dark green stain spreading across the Vulcan's front, the way his hand clutched at his chest where the bullet had entered._

_Jim exhaled shakily, his chest constricting with a painful twist. "No," he breathed._

..

Spock stirred slightly, and the movement propelled Jim into action. He looked around wildly for his fallen earpiece and spotted it glinting at the foot of the memorial. Two stumbling steps later, he was snatching it up, ignoring the bite of broken glass against his knuckles as he grabbed it and initiated a comm channel.

The signal took a second to go through and he glanced around, hoping to see any available medics and finding none. Finally, there was a tiny click in his ear, and he burst out, “Bo-”

 _“Jim!”_ The relief in McCoy’s voice was palpable even through the tiny device. _“Where the hell did you-”_

"Later," Jim said hurriedly, dropping to his knees beside his first officer. "Listen, Spock's hurt...Bones, it looks pretty bad, you need to get to the memorial right now. Shit," he added under his breath, taking in the growing puddle of blood around Spock and the green still trickling over his fingers. "Spock, you idiot, let me see." A moment later, he pulled the Vulcan's hand aside, trying not to notice how limply it fell to the ground.

 _“Jim, I can’t,”_ McCoy replied, sounding pained even as he said it. _“I’m up to my elbows in a civilian up here, Chapel’s getting her stabilized now.”_

"How soon can you be here?" Jim asked, surveying the damage in dismay. The majority of Spock's front was drenched in blood, the stains obscuring where the wound lay. He took a deep breath, steadying himself against the sight. "Hang in there, you hear me?" he muttered, fingers fumbling at the tunic's fastenings. Spock gave a wet cough that might have been a reply, and Jim spared him an anxious glance as he peeled the outer jacket away from Spock’s torso.

 _“Soon,_ ” McCoy said firmly. _“Keep pressure on the wound, try to prevent as much blood loss as possible until I get there.”_ He hesitated a beat, and Jim could hear muffled voices from the other end of the feed. _“I’ll be there, Jim. I promise.”_

Jim nodded despite knowing that McCoy couldn’t see, not trusting himself with words at the moment, and ended the comm. Spock’s inner undershirt was soaked in dark stains, blood oozing from the round puncture hole just to the left of the Vulcan’s sternum. Jim braced himself before gripping the wet fabric in his hands, tearing it down to the hem until he had completely exposed Spock's chest and could make out the pale skin around the wound.

Emerald liquid rolled down Spock's ribs, seeping around Jim's shoe where he knelt, and he tried not to panic when he saw how close the shot had been to where a human heart would be. As it was, he didn't think the wound was fatal, but there was so much blood…...the bullet must have nicked an artery, judging by how heavy the flow was. A shot rang out overhead, and he hunched down instinctively over Spock, hands searching out the ragged wound and feeling the pulsing of warm blood beneath his fingers.

"Listen- Spock," Jim said urgently, looking up. The Vulcan's face had gone almost gray from shock and blood loss, his eyes flickering unfocusedly. "Spock," he said again, more sharply, and raised a bloody hand to the side of Spock's face. "You with me?"

Spock blinked sluggishly, his face smeared green under Jim’s hand, and he gave an affirmative grunt.

“I need to pinch this off before you bleed out. Not going to lie, it’s gonna hurt like hell. But you’re going to be okay. Hey,” Jim gave Spock’s cheek another firm pat when it looked like he was drifting off again. “You’re going to be okay,” he repeated, needing the reassurance more than Spock probably did himself.

The Vulcan lowered his chin in a faded version of a nod, and Jim pulled his hand away, the drying blood on his palm sticking to Spock’s skin. His eyes lit on a large shard of shattered glass from the broken windows nearby, and he winced despite himself. But it was long enough to wield, with a sharp, albeit jagged edge, and it would have to do.

"Bones is gonna kill me for this," he muttered, gingerly shaking the worst of the dirt and grit from the piece of glass. Spock made a feeble, displeased noise when he saw the glass, probably protesting the unsanitary aspects of the utensil.

"Eyes on me, Commander, that's an order," Jim told him authoritatively, his words tight with stress and deep-seated panic. Spock's gaze wavered instantly to his face out of sheer habit, and Jim took a deep breath, positioning the makeshift blade a couple of inches above where his other hand was still clamping down on the bleeding wound.

"Don't look down," he said, his voice softening minutely, and he sliced the edge of the glass into Spock's flesh.

Spock's breath hitched in a faint hiss as Jim deepened the incision, his shoulders rising slightly off the ground involuntarily. "Shh, it's okay," Jim forced through gritted teeth, sweat trickling through the grime on his own face as he pushed down harder with his left hand, feeling the wound pulse feebly beneath his palm. "It's okay." His hands were stained green to the wrists, under his nails and staining his knees, and he wondered dimly if he could ever wash away Spock's blood.

"You really have to be more careful, Commander," Jim muttered, attempting to keep Spock’s mind off what was happening. "At this rate, I'll have you confined to the ship."

"I will attempt...to not register the irony of your statement, Captain," Spock responded, gasping when Jim pressed down harder on the wound.

He cut down deeper through another layer of tissue, then it was finished, a deep gash that feebly oozed more blood from Spock's chest and added to the gory mess on the surrounding ground. Jim tossed the glass away with a sickening lurch in his stomach and clenched his jaw, working the fingers of his right hand experimentally.

"Eyes on me," he said again automatically, noticing Spock's gaze flickering down to his fingers. Jim offered a halfhearted smile when Spock complied. "Wish you were this obedient all the time."

He waited for the mildly indignant look to pass over Spock's face before taking the opportunity of distraction to pry his fingers into the incision, trying not to grimace at the slippery slide and clench of warm blood and flesh as he searched for the torn artery. Beneath him, Spock's back stiffened and arched off the ground at the intrusion, a muffled sound escaping from the back of his throat as he struggled to remain under control. Despite his attempts at keeping a stoic expression, his head jerked back in shock as Jim pushed in farther.

"You're doing good, real good," Jim went on, feeling a stir of admiration for his first officer. "Wish I could have half that badass control you've got." Jim pressed down harder on the bullet wound to steady Spock as much as himself, digging deeper with his other hand as he spoke, feeling, praying-

His fumbling fingertips found the pulsing rupture, and he blindly clenched down on the artery before it could slip away. His fingers were buried up to the second knuckle in the incision, and he could nearly make out the outline of his own fingers beneath blood-streaked skin and the dark green glisten of torn muscle and tendon.

Spock was panting through his nose in quick, shallow bursts, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkled deeply in strain. Jim let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and smiled down at him weakly. "There...that wasn't so bad, right?"

"...debatable," Spock croaked, and Jim frowned, irritation stinging at him now that the initial stress had subsided.

"Who the hell told you to pull a stunt like that, anyway?" he demanded. "Of all the illogical things to do, Spock, taking a hit for me like that-" he cut off swiftly when he saw the Vulcan's eyes wearily sliding shut. "Stay with me, Spock. I'm not losing you now, you understand?" Jim pressed down harder on the wound, squeezing down on the artery with cramping, bloody fingers, watching with bated breath as Spock blinked and squinted up at him dazedly.

"Yeah, that's it, that's good. I'm gonna take care of you. I don't believe in no-win scenarios, remember?" Jim waited for Spock's slight, struggling nod before continuing, trying to not let any panic seep into his voice. "You were so pissed off during that trial, weren't you? Man, I thought you were the biggest jerk in the galaxy, and I was kinda right, wasn't I?" He forced out a tight, halfhearted chuckle. "Thought we were going to hate each other forever, and look at us now.”

"Never...hated you," Spock rasped, his eyebrow somehow managing to rise in consternation despite the dried blood streaked along his temple.

Jim stared, dumbfounded. A memory nudged briefly to light, not clear enough to see, but close enough to feel, and he felt a grin tugging at his face despite the circumstances. "But you thought I was irritating."

"Exceedingly....so,” Spock said promptly, and Jim let out a startled laugh.

“Jim,” a hoarse voice grated a moment later, followed by a heavy thud as a dusty medkit landed beside Jim's leg.

"Bones!" Jim looked up in time to see the older man drop down across from him, his tunic unfastened in the front and flapping loosely over his undershirt. McCoy looked exhausted and yet fiercely alive, his dark eyes sweeping over Spock and taking in the situation in one space.

He hadn't been kidding about the "up to the elbows part," either, Jim noticed with a start, realizing that McCoy's rolled up sleeves and shirt were splattered with darkening droplets. There was a particularly nasty stain across his chest, and a tacky smear down the side of his face that Jim couldn't figure out if it belonged to him or not.

"You've made a proper mess of yourself, haven't you?" McCoy was lamenting as he rummaged through his bag, glaring down at Spock with mingled irritation and concern.

Jim shifted, feeling a small jab of guilt. "Bones, I-"

"You did good, kid." McCoy bent, angling a light into Spock's eye before tossing it away and reaching for a flat pouch in his bag. Jim grimaced at the array of neatly arranged hyposprays within, then blinked as McCoy shoved a tube at him. "Here, fill the incision with this. It'll keep it in stasis until I can get a look at it."

"What is it?" Jim fumbled with the tube, letting McCoy take over Spock's bullet wound as he tried to thumb the lid off one-handedly.

"Water-based antibiotic," McCoy grunted, keeping a hand pressed over the wound while deftly uncapping a hypospray with his teeth. "Numbs up the wound, keeps it clean for surgery later," he explained, spitting the cap out. "Here, stretch it open a bit, you want it to get to the artery."

“Sorry about this," Jim muttered regretfully, flexing his fingers outward slightly to widen the incision. Spock made a small noise of discomfort, his already ashen skin paling even further, and Jim quickly began applying the gel.

It was clear and surprisingly cold against his fingers, and Spock made another quiet, more startled noise when it entered his wound.

"Better?" McCoy asked briskly, loading another hypospray and setting it aside. Spock didn't answer, but his eyes fluttered closed and Jim looked up anxiously.

"What? What did it do?"

"Keep going." McCoy gestured at him to continue. "You ever had a brain freeze?"

Jim looked at him warily for a moment, but continued filling the wound. He withdrew his fingers slowly as he did so, making sure the opening was completely sealed. "Yeah?"

McCoy delivered the first hypo with a quick, efficient jab to Spock's neck. "Blood pressure's dropping," he muttered, almost to himself, and glanced back at Jim. "Feels a bit like that," he continued, picking up the second hypo and applying it as well. "Goes all numb and tingly after a while and the brain can't decipher pain anymore. Here, fill this too,” he added, nodding at the entry site while he reached for his kit again.

McCoy’s tricorder suddenly emitted a shrill beep, and the doctor glanced at it sharply. “Shit,” he muttered, rummaging frantically for his comm. “Start prepping for a supplementary transfusion,” he ordered as soon as he located the device. “One liter from our Vulcan units, you got it?”

_“Yes, sir.”_

McCoy continued giving instructions, clamping the comm between his ear and shoulder as he began loading a third hypospray. Jim watched anxiously from the side, helpless to aid in any way and hating every second of it.

The tricorder gave out another alert, and Jim glanced down worriedly at Spock. The Vulcan’s gaze was sliding in and out of focus, each blink taking longer and longer. McCoy bit out another low curse and twisted a gauge on the hypo to the highest pressure setting just as the tricorder sounded its third warning.

“Bones…” Jim said, looking up apprehensively.

McCoy ended the comm and tossed it aside, glaring down at Spock. “Oh no you don’t,” he said determinedly, running his hand along the side of Spock’s torso. He pinpointed an area quickly and spread his fingers over the Vulcan’s heart, locking in the location before jamming the hypo down in one swift movement. Spock flinched at the force of the impact, his muscles seizing briefly in shock before falling slack once more, and Jim found himself wincing in sympathy.

A few seconds passed while they both stared down at the Vulcan, McCoy's gaze flickering consistently to his vitals. "Come on," Jim realized he was muttering incessantly under his own breath. "Come on, Spock, please..."

Finally, McCoy slumped back, letting out a long breath. “He’s stabilized,” he said, the strain still evident in his voice. At Jim’s questioning look, he carefully elaborated, “Too much pressure on the body and the heart will give out. I had to relieve the stress before he slipped into Ventricular Fibrillation."

"Is he...?"

"He's going to be fine, Jim," McCoy assured him wearily. "He'll be okay."

The doctor set the tricorder down, raising a hand unthinkingly to his face before catching himself and staring at his bloody fingers in bemusement. Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out a chemical wipe, offering it to Jim wordlessly.

Jim took it gratefully, wiping the worst of Spock's blood off his hands and staring at the smeared material afterwards. His own scrapes and bruises were beginning to ache now, his elbows and shoulders throbbing where they'd met the ground one too many times and the bullet graze on his cheek stung feebly.

He looked down thoughtfully, placing a hand on Spock's forehead when he saw that the Vulcan's eyes had closed.

"So why is he...”

“He’s gone into a healing trance," McCoy answered distractedly, concentrating on cleaning off his own hands. "It's a good sign."

Jim exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath in the first place.

The air was cooler now, he noticed, and when he glanced up curiously, he saw that gray clouds were beginning to drift in from over the bay, obscuring the sun in a thin haze. He'd forgotten how quickly the weather could change after months in space, where only the chronometers displayed the passage of time.

"Looks like they've got the evacuations under control," McCoy noted, nodding at the top ring.

Jim dropped his gaze to the five exits, watching the streams of civilians filtering out. The terrorists were nowhere to be seen- he glanced to his left and saw that Cetus's body had been removed sometime without him even noticing. They'd be taken to headquarters, he knew, and kept under watch until further legal procedures could be undertaken.

McCoy's comm sounded and he answered instantly, flipping it open and staring at the message. "Finally," he grumbled, scowling at the screen.

Jim looked up and McCoy caught his eye as he closed the comm. "They're sending transport for Spock," the doctor explained, tucking his comm back in his bag and putting away the various pieces of equipment he had scattered out on the ground. "Should be here in a-" He caught glimpse of something over Jim's shoulder and rose up onto his knees, waving an arm. "Over here!!"

Jim stood as the medics approached with a stretcher in tow, stepping back to let the professionals do their work as they carefully lifted Spock under McCoy's sharp instructions.

"Damn it, man, watch it, he's been shot, for crying out loud-"

Jim watched the proceedings absently, relief warring with exhaustion to create a strange state of mind that was neither one nor the other. He half turned away, wondering if he was needed elsewhere, when something caught his eye. Something so subtle he wasn't sure if he'd be able to explain it if asked, but it caught his attention nevertheless and he paused, his heart stuttering briefly.

"Jim, what is it?" he heard McCoy ask, but his breath caught in his throat and he couldn't answer.

Slowly, he turned his head, afraid that if he moved any faster, she'd disappear.

He knew without a doubt who she was as soon as he saw her. There was no mistaking the way she stood even across the ring, or the way her gaze held his with an intensity that hadn't diminished with time. He was helpless to look away, to break even that slight connection, until she finally turned away and slipped into the crowd milling towards the exits, blending in with a seamless ease that spoke of years of practice.

"Jim?" McCoy asked again, and Jim glanced away reluctantly to see that his friend had moved to join him on the other side of the stretcher, where Spock was now being strapped in and fussed over by the attending medics.

After a moment of Jim looking at him silently, unable to articulate the feeling of urgency within him, McCoy blinked slowly in growing understanding. "Go on, then. I'll cover for you," he said quietly.

Jim hesitated, his gaze flitting past McCoy at his first officer. "Are you..."

"He'll be fine, Jim."

Jim lingered a second longer, then reached out and gave McCoy's arm a quick squeeze, hoping that it spoke more volumes than his words could. After giving his friend a nod, he cast Spock one last glance, then left.

He wasn't quite able to catch up, but his target remained just within the edge of his sight. She was like a shadow, there one moment and gone the next, depending on which way the light shone and the crowd shifted. Once, Jim wasn't even sure if he was following the right woman, but she turned her head to the side and he caught the edge of her silhouette. It was her. It had to be.

He almost lost her at the second ring and stopped, his heart flipping wildly in his chest as he searched with increasing panic. If she got away now, he knew with utter certainty that he'd never see her again. He wouldn't have found her at all if she hadn't meant for him to. And if this was a test of some kind, he couldn't fail.

He saw her on the steps to the third ring and picked up his pace again, ignoring the exclaims of surprise and dismay around him as the first drops of rain began to fall from the darkening sky.

He squeezed through the exit at the top ring, through the tight circle of security guards, and stumbled into the open avenue where the civilians were beginning to filter away in separate directions. They were on the fringes of the Academy campus now, not far from where Jim used to take his night walks beneath the Remembrance Bridge.

It was a wide arch stretching over a private walkway along the bay, more of a tunnel than a true bridge if anything. Jim had spent hours there in the months following the Narada incident, poring over the silver plaques along the inner curve that documented each perished crew member in the attack on Vulcan. The Bridge itself was a glossy white, the familiarity of the color tugging at his heart as he slowed to a stop beneath it.

The rain was falling heavier now, pelting the arch with metallic echoes and filling the air with a muffled roar that drowned out the tumult of his own thoughts. If there had ever been a planned speech in his mind of what he'd say in this moment, it was completely gone now, eradicated by panic and nerves and an overwhelming feeling of insignificance. It was all he could do to stand there and catch his breath as she stepped closer out of the shadows, maintaining a careful distance between them.

She wore dark, nondescript clothing, he noted, the easier to blend in with the surrounding crowd. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, the streaks of silver more pronounced than they had seemed in the hologram, but if anything, her eyes were brighter and harder than he remembered.

"So it wasn't a lie," he said without precedent. A slight breeze tugged at his clothing, chilling his damp skin, and he suppressed a shiver.

"No," Winona agreed easily, her voice low as she watched him with just as much wariness as he regarded her. "It wasn't."

This wasn't how he had pictured their reunion, but he didn't know exactly how he'd wanted it to happen, either. Maybe he hadn't thought that it'd ever happen, but it was undoubtedly happening right now and Jim was certain that he was ruining it already.

"It was you, then," he heard himself say, the realization dawning even as he spoke. "Back at the Memorial. You were the shooter."

"Someone had to do it," she answered, supplying no denials or excuses. There was no remorse in her gaze, but no joy in her actions, either, and Jim didn't remember the last time he'd seen her eyes that clear. "And I couldn't let it be you. You wouldn't have been able to live with yourself afterwards."

"And you?"

"I've lived with worse." Winona took a careful step towards him as she spoke. "I didn't mean for this to happen," she said suddenly, indicating their surroundings with a slight nod. "I was going to go quietly, leave you in peace, but...." A flash of vulnerability crossed her face and she hesitated before continuing, "It was a moment of weakness. You've......you've grown so much, Jim."

Jim watched her look him up and down, pride and sorrow mixing equally in her expression, and he couldn't help his next question. "Do I look more like him?"

She looked briefly startled, then resigned, and then something else that he couldn't identify. "You're your own man, Jim. You've always been."

Jim took a deep breath, caught off guard by the sudden prickling behind his eyes. "Why did you come?" he asked thickly, after clearing his throat. "You could've been caught…someone could've recognized you…"

Winona’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “I couldn’t let him hurt you back then, Jimmy. Same goes for now. And after all, I disappeared years ago- I doubt anyone would look twice now.”

“But there’s more,” Jim said slowly, trying to fit the pieces together. “You said you never meant for us to meet, but then you waited. You let me follow you because…”

Winona was quiet, and Jim felt his throat tightening inexplicably, the crack in his heart that he’d never been able to mend despite all the years of bluffing and laughing and deflection beginning to widen once more.

“You came to say goodbye,” he finished, hating the tremor in his own voice.

Her eyes suddenly glinted in the growing darkness, and Jim wasn’t sure if it was from tears or something colder. That uncertainty had always been what kept them apart, he thought with a trace of old bitterness.

“Cetus is dead,” Winona said, her voice barely audible above the rain. “But his men will fold eventually under the right pressure. You’ll get names from them, the locations of their bases, you can shut down this Revival. And my name will come out one way or another, Jim. I won’t be safe here.” _You won’t be safe_ , her gaze said, burning into his with a fierceness that Jim remembered well. Winona Kirk was a strong woman, after all, he thought ruefully. Stronger than him in some ways.

"Will I see you again?" he asked, his voice as small as he felt in that moment.

Her face softened slightly, the hard lines fading into a quiet weariness, and she seemed to reach out unthinkingly before catching herself and returning her hand to her side. "I don't know," she answered, with a nonchalance that her trembling fingers betrayed. "You may not even want to-"

"I do." Jim swallowed, looking at her conflictingly. "I thought...I didn't...I didn't know what to think, when you...but you're here now." He paused again, forcing himself to breathe evenly as his chest heaved and his hands shifted uncertainly at his sides. "You can't- you can't just leave again."

"You'll be fine," she told him, and somehow the words weren't as cutting as they might have sounded to him years ago. "You've got a family now, Jim. The family you've always wanted, one that cares for you just as much as you care for them. And I'm......I'm sorry you couldn't have it sooner. It's better this way." She lifted her hand again and this time, Jim stepped forward into the touch, grasping her hand in his and pressing it to his own face.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, blinking rapidly. He couldn't stop it now, he could feel the tears at the corners of his eyes, threatening to well out at the slightest move. "I'm so sorry, I-" His voice broke and he stuttered to a halt, closing his eyes against her suddenly exposed expression. He didn't even know what he was apologizing for anymore, only that it was long overdue. "I'm sorry, Mom."

He felt a light brush of contact on the other side of his face, the warm pressure of her hands pulling him close, and he leaned in with a shaky sigh, realizing just how much he'd needed this all along.

"Thought you hated me," came her soft voice, and he opened his eyes. Through his blurry vision, he could make out a tentative smile, feel her fingers brushing through his hair.

"I thought I did," Jim admitted, pressing his hands to hers and keeping her still. She looked up at him, revealing the relief and hesitation she could no longer conceal, and he moved closer to kiss her carefully on the forehead. Her lip trembled when he pulled away, and he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace, tilting his head forward to rest against hers.

There was a short silence filled only by rain and the sound of his beating heart, slow and steady in his chest for the first time in what felt like a long, long time. He closed his eyes again, shutting out everything but this moment right here, standing beneath the Bridge with the last person he'd ever think to share it with.

“Happy Birthday, Jimmy," she whispered, and it finally struck him that she was right. He gave a short, wordless nod against the top of her head and kept his eyes closed, because if he opened them, if he saw how close she was to breaking, he wouldn't be able to walk away.

So he held her and let himself be held in return, and for the first time in all the times she'd left before, he said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback, we really appreciate and look forward to it!
> 
> We would like to thank as well as give credit to beamirang, who gave us permission to use the water-based antibiotic. Originally she used something similar in her story, "Transitions", and we found it worked well for these circumstances.
> 
> While we did as much research as we could about Vulcan anatomy to make this scene as accurate as it could be, neither of us are medical professionals and therefore we advise you to read at your own discretion.
> 
> Also, if this story was going to be a movie, there is one piece of music we could easily see serving as the main theme song for "Brothers in Arms." Some of you may have heard it before, so let us know what you think.  
> [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y2U0zyxEIo)


	14. Chapter 14

It was four hours later before Jim managed to make it back aboard the _Enterprise_ , stumbling off the transporter platform and waving off Scotty's concerned protests. The press had swarmed him as soon as he'd entered the courtyard and it had been all he could do to make his excuses and deflect the more pointed questions.

_“Yes, the suspects have been apprehended and are facing legal procedures.”_

_“No, Starfleet is not affiliated with any terrorist organizations, no further comments at this time.”_

_“I can’t speak for the Admiralty, ma’am, perhaps at the press conference next week-”_

He had forgotten how much he’d hated the press before now, the way they gathered close and surrounded him with their recorders and cams. It was enough for him to want to charge right back into space again.

“How is he?” Jim demanded, as soon as he burst into medbay. A couple of nearby nurses made noises of disapproval, clearly alarmed at his disheveled state, and he ignored some of their efforts to steer him towards a biobed.

McCoy looked up, startled, dropping a hypo on the cart where he'd been setting out a row of vials and equipment. "Jim?"

“Bones! Where’s Spock?” Jim swiveled around, wondering if he’d somehow missed the Vulcan in one of the beds.

McCoy raised his hands placatingly, trying to calm Jim down. “Kid, he’s fine.”

“He’s-” Jim stared at his friend, fighting off the exhaustion that had been threatening to overwhelm him ever since he walked away from the Bridge. “He’s fine?”

“The surgery went well. He’ll be out of the healing trance in a few more hours, be right as rain.” McCoy scanned him up and down, slipping into his professional mode. “Now take that shirt off. Let me have a look at you."

It turned out that Jim had been walking around with a fractured rib and enough bruises to put another man down for a week. According to McCoy's outraged exclamations, he should have come for treatment hours ago instead of aggravating his injuries. Jim sat patiently through the doctor's contrastingly gentle administrations, preferring his friend's ranting over the clamoring of his own thoughts.

"How was it?" McCoy eventually asked, when he'd calmed down enough to speak at normal, if slightly hoarse, levels. “The press, I mean.”

"As bad as it could get," Jim sighed, shifting slightly as McCoy stepped in front of him to press the regenerator closer to his side. "I'm fully booked for conferences tomorrow, the Admiralty wants to make nice with the public." He suppressed a yawn, but McCoy gave him a look that said he hadn't been fooled.

"That'll give you some time to rest up beforehand, then," he said, pulling the regenerator away and prodding lightly at Jim's ribs with careful fingers. “Before your big debut, that is.”

Jim gave a soft huff of amusement that faded into a weary sigh, as he dropped his head forward to rest on McCoy's shoulder. The doctor made a small noise of surprise, but he set the regenerator down beside him carefully and held still while the younger man leaned against him.

A long moment followed in which Jim closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar clean scent of the man's medical scrubs, the underlying hint of outdated aftershave that the doctor always denied using, but Jim knew came from a monthly shipment with a child's handwriting on the address label. "What would I do without you?" he asked finally.

“I’d rather not think about it,” McCoy grumbled, and Jim swatted his side halfheartedly.

“I’m serious, Bones.”                                

“I know.” McCoy’s hand came up to squeeze Jim’s shoulder reassuringly, staying mindful of the faded bruises there. “Love you too, kid.” He lingered for a second, absently rubbing Jim’s shoulder before clearing his throat. “Now go get some sleep.”

Jim lifted his head reluctantly, the need for sleep battling with his reluctance to leave matters unfinished. "Will you…..?"

"You'll be the first to know when Spock wakes up," McCoy said patiently. "But you need to think about yourself too, you know. For once."

The doctor's gaze softened as he watched Jim heave himself up from the examination table and pull his shirt on, grimacing as his newly regenerated skin tugged slightly. "You have a big day tomorrow."

And it was a big day. No sooner had Jim's alarm gone off seven hours after leaving the medbay had he been bombarded by comms and messages requesting his presence at various press conferences, speeches, and trials. He donned his dress uniform reluctantly, noting that it'd been cleaned and pressed while he had slept, and went on his way.

Scotty insisted on sending a couple of yeoman with him and Jim hadn't protested. His body still ached from the mistreatment he'd put it through the day before, and seeing the truly impressive flight of steps that had awaited him in front of the courthouse had nearly stopped him dead in his tracks.

Two hours later, he was stiffly dismounting the stairway, resisting the temptation to ask his self-appointed bodyguards to give him a hand down. "What next, sir?" one of them asked as soon as they reached the bottom, and Jim leaned subtly against a handrail while he checked his comm.

"Lunch at headquarters. Says they'll be sending a ride." He paused and looked pointedly up and down the street. "See anything?"

"No, sir," the yeoman said obligingly.

"Me neither. Let's ditch."

They ended up eating at a small corner store, Jim with his tunic turned inside out so that the black lining showed instead of the gray. It wasn't his most fashionable look, but it turned away enough attention for him to grab a sandwich without being swarmed.

He really wasn't cut out for this kind of thing, Jim thought wearily two public showings later.

He'd take a squadron of Klingons any day over this bunch. He hadn't so much as laid eyes on the prisoners yet, and it seemed like the rest of the city was intent on getting all the judicial details from him. When he finally fended off the last questions and stumbled out of his final meeting, it was dark and the chill of evening had settled in. He let the yeoman help him into the cab this time on their way back to the shuttle, hiding a wince when he bumped his sore shoulder on the door.

The _Enterprise_ had docked at the space station for maintenance and repairs during their shore leave, which, Jim realized with a start, would begin tomorrow.

Hopefully, all this would be cleared up by then.

The comm came in as he was stepping off the shuttle, and he all but ran to the medbay, his pain immediately forgotten. "Spock's awake," McCoy had said, and Jim hadn't waited to hear the rest before taking off.

He burst into the medbay breathlessly, almost crashing into McCoy himself. "Whoa there," the doctor said, catching Jim by the arms and keeping him from toppling over. "Slow down, kid. What's the hurry?"

Jim gaped at him incredulously. "You serious? You said Spock was awake-"

"And then I told you that he was still in pre-screening," McCoy said impatiently. "Here, sit..." he propelled Jim towards a bench and pushed him down.”Do you need anything? Water?"

Jim shook his head, glancing around distractedly. "I can't take another day of this, Bones. I'm going crazy."

"Ah," McCoy said unsympathetically. "Well, can’t say I envy you there." He patted Jim's shoulder comfortingly after a moment's thought, though, and Jim grunted in displeased assent.

After a short while of fidgeting in vain, Jim emitted a sigh and reached for a spare PADD lying beside him, tapping listlessly at the screen. "Will he be done soon?"

McCoy made an absent noise from where he was flipping through a patient's charts, and Jim continued jabbing at the datapad moodily. He might as well start on the stack of reports he'd been putting off, he decided reluctantly, and he began pulling up the files, glancing hopefully at the closed door in the back of the medbay to no avail.

He drummed his stylus nervously against the side of the PADD's casing as he scanned the screen, seeing the words of the report, but not registering them. He paused to flick to the next page, and then resumed his insistent tapping.

McCoy cleared his throat, and Jim glanced up, startled. "Hmm?"

"You're doing it again," McCoy said, giving the PADD a pointed look. "Stop it."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jim mumbled, looking back down at the report.

Somehow, even McCoy's _silence_ was meaningful. Jim looked up again defensively. "What?"

"He's fine, Jim. You managed to stop the bleeding fast enough before I got there, and the surgery went as well as it could have.”

“I took that interspecies prereq course years ago, Bones! What if I screwed it-” he cut off at McCoy’s raised eyebrow.

“Look, Jim, we all had to take a field exam before they shot us up here, and you passed the medical portion with flying colors, didn’t you? So unless you want to help him put his own damn clothes on, I advise you to calm down before I do something I might regret."

Spock heard the end of Jim's protest as he stepped out from behind the partition, and looked up to meet Jim's startled gaze as the captain lowered his PADD and passed it absently to a bewildered yeoman, his expression settling oddly as he stared at his first officer.

Spock raised a hand appealingly as Jim began to stride purposefully towards him, unsure as to the reason for the man's behavior but certain that he must have erred in some matter to cause it.

"Captain, I-" He cut off abruptly as Jim wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace, his chest throbbing dully in complaint at the force behind the hug. The unexpected gesture caught Spock off guard, and he placed a hand on the bed behind him to avoid losing his balance, blinking when he noticed McCoy's amused expression from across the medbay.

"Captain," Spock tried again, and he received a muffled grunt in response from somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder. The captain's chin dug uncomfortably in the pressure point just beneath his neck, his grip just tight enough to pull at the bandages Spock had not been able to reason out of. But there was something purely earnest about the gesture that gave Spock some pause, though eventually his discomfort outweighed his surprise and he cleared his throat hesitantly.

When Jim said nothing, the Vulcan tentatively raised his own hands, returning the embrace in a loose, awkward reciprocation. He patted clumsily in the region of Jim's shoulder blades and felt mildly satisfied when the other man huffed in amusement.

Unexpectedly, he found that he was reluctant to disengage, despite his inexperience in this aspect of human protocol. There was a certain element of comfort in such gestures, he supposed, and he could not find it in him to begrudge the captain the moment. Impulsively, Spock slid his arms tighter around Jim, pulling him closer. He could feel the captain's body tense instinctively at his initiative, but the other man made no complaint, giving in to the contact with undeniable relief.

Jim gave him a final squeeze before stepping back, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Glad you're okay, Spock. Really." His eyes darted to the Vulcan’s chest in sudden concern. "Oh, crap...I'm sorry- that probably hurt-"

"There is no need for you to apologize, Jim," Spock interrupted, feeling a rare smile tug at his lips.

“All right, that’s enough of that,” McCoy grumbled, but his tone lacked its usual annoyance as he stepped past Jim and steered Spock firmly towards a biobed. “Final checkup and you’re free, Mr. Spock. And you.” He glanced back sternly at Jim. “You’ve got another day of this to plow through. I suggest you go prepare your speeches. Pretty yourself up for the cams.”

“I’m always pretty,” Jim scoffed, backing towards the door reluctantly, and McCoy snorted derisively when the younger man promptly staggered into a biobed with a muffled curse. Beside him, Spock merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

“As I was saying,” Jim continued, straightening hastily and righting the cart he had almost knocked over.

“See you, Jim,” McCoy said pointedly, and after a mollified grin in the doctor’s direction, Jim finally left.

There was a quiet moment afterwards in which McCoy flitted around Spock, pulling up the hem of his shirt to press various instruments against him and frowning ambiguously at the beeps and trills they emitted.

“Doctor,” the Vulcan said momentarily, after McCoy pronounced him perfectly sound and lowered his shirt absently. “Do you have any previous engagements scheduled for tomorrow?”

McCoy looked at him suspiciously, pausing midway through packing away his tricorder. “Nothing too urgent, now that you’re back in one piece again. Why do you ask?”

“There is….a task I wish for you to assist me with, if you would be willing to accompany me planetside.” Spock waited as McCoy contemplated his proposal, his frown deepening as he tapped his foot thoughtfully.

“We going somewhere far?”

…

Upon declaring that the vehicle Spock had procured was acceptable and road-worthy, McCoy had immediately commandeered the wheel and assigned the role of navigator to the Vulcan. Despite Spock's initial doubts- McCoy had been noticeably shaky as they exited the public shuttle- the doctor displayed a more confident attitude towards Earthbound vessels and had taken to the task of driving with the air of a man finally comfortable with his surroundings.

Night had fallen while they travelled the straight, flat roads of Riverside, Iowa, passing the occasional farm as they circled the town’s outskirts. Spock had contented himself with staring at his PADD, alternating between the map and the news feed of the press conferences still occurring in San Francisco.

He repressed a jolt of recognition when he came across mention of Jim in one such article, detailing the happenings of an interview at the site of the terrorist attack. The inevitable had happened since they had departed San Francisco, and Winona Kirk’s name was once more being circulated through international channels. Accusations and conjectures about the relation of Jim to the organization had instantly arisen, cueing a series of photographs depicting a tired-looking Jim amidst a sea of flashing cams.

 _Starfleet has wholeheartedly denied all claims of notoriety surrounding Captain James Kirk, due to his outstanding service and previous acts of valor. His role in the suppression of the rebel organization has further proved his dedication to the Federation and lays to rest any lingering doubts as to the loyalties of Starfleet’s youngest captain…_ Spock read distractedly, half listening to the doctor’s one-sided chatter.

"...and then he tells me they're out of antixylcerin, so I had to call in the most awful favors from-" McCoy cut himself off, glancing over at Spock suspiciously. "You all right?"

Spock blinked, switching from the article to the map once more, and he said nothing.

Presently, McCoy shrugged and looked back towards the front. The headlights sliced a white swath through the darkness on both sides of the road, occasionally catching the green fields that this region of Iowa seemed to be mostly comprised of. Spock returned to gazing out the window, settling within his own thoughts in the silence.

"First time out this way?" McCoy asked abruptly, and Spock reluctantly withdrew himself from his meditation to answer.

"I have not had many opportunities to travel beyond what my duties require."

"Well, it's real nice in the summertime," McCoy continued on blithely, with the air of a man who required conversation to remain engaged in something as monotonous as driving. "Not as warm as Georgia, but nice in a dry sorta way. You never been there either, then?"

"I have not."

"I miss it sometimes," the doctor said wistfully, staring out the windshield with a distant expression. "You'd like it, I think, with the heat and all. My parents used to have an orchard out back, and when I was a kid, it'd be all you could do to get me inside before dark. Not much of that in San Francisco."

Spock looked over at McCoy carefully. "You have a child there, am I correct?"

A wide smile slowly spread across the doctor's face, and it was so unfamiliar on the usually scowling features that Spock found himself caught off guard.

"Yeah, Joanna." The smile softened McCoy's expression, transforming the weary lines to something more youthful and exuberant, and Spock could not help but think that he preferred this look on the man. "She's a sweet kid. Jim would like her."

Spock was quiet for a moment, processing this. "Are you insinuating that I would find your daughter displeasing?"

McCoy gave a startled laugh, the car swerving slightly to the left before he corrected himself. "It's not that. She's a bit of a troublemaker, is all. Might be a little much for a Vulcan to handle." The last he said with a teasing glance in Spock's direction, accompanied with a lighter tone that the Vulcan had not heard in some time since this mission began. Perhaps there were more merits to this outing than his original purpose, after all.

"I assure you, Doctor, my experiences in serving under the captain have vastly expanded my knowledge of child-rearing," Spock said expressionlessly, staring pointedly ahead of him, but his mouth twitched when McCoy snorted in amusement and bent over the wheel in a bout of helpless laughter.

“Child-rearing,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head as he squinted up again. “I like to think he’s grown up some since- Oh, damn, that was the turn.”

Spock’s safety belt tightened automatically as the car swiveled around sharply to the left, and he gingerly worked the strap loose again as McCoy took off down the correct road.

“Almost there.” McCoy glanced at the navigation panel and peered out his window, slowing slightly. “Should be somewhere here…”

Spock spotted the house first and pointed it out to McCoy, who turned off the road and cruised slowly down the long dirt drive. The house was large by human standards, but held an air of abandonment about it that Spock found troubling. The plank walls had been white at some point, he recalled from Jim’s memories, but were now nearly brown and gray with time and neglect, one of the shutters around a second-level window hanging precariously by one faded corner.

“Fantastic,” McCoy said under his breath as they parked by the side of the house behind a rusted truck. Spock stepped out as soon as the engine had disengaged; he had no great love for Earth vehicles and McCoy’s driving left something to be desired.

The look on the doctor’s face as he exited the car did not bode well for their task at hand, difficult as it already was. “Perhaps I should-” Spock began.

“I’ve got this,” McCoy said grimly, circling around to stride towards the front door, and Spock trailed behind with some trepidation.

The first knock did little more than dislodge a layer of dust from the threshold, and Spock stepped back wisely while McCoy coughed and spluttered, glaring at the door with watering eyes.

"Damn it," the man muttered darkly, raising his fist again to rap on the peeling wood. "Sir, we're here on behalf of Starfleet Command."

 _It was, technically, not far from the truth,_ Spock reasoned silently.

"If you don't open up in five seconds, sir, we retain every right to force entrance and- _what_?" McCoy scowled when Spock turned his head sharply to regard him. "I have every damn right as Jim's-"

The door was yanked open with an unpleasant wrenching sound, sending another shower of grime cascading over the doctor's already fuming visage. A large middle-aged man, more soft bulk than muscle, stood silhouetted in the dimly lit hallway, glaring out at them suspiciously.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Are you Frank?" McCoy demanded instantly, and Spock could almost see the doctor drawing himself up to his full height to glare at the other man.

"What's it to you?" the man snapped peevishly, and the doctor's eyes lit in a maniacal way that bore a startling resemblance to that of Lieutenant Scott when the captain had raided his illicit brewery two months prior.

"Hey, I'm tal-" Frank staggered away from the door as McCoy swung, landing a solid punch to the man's jaw. "What the-"

"That's for Jim," McCoy said with relish, rubbing his reddening knuckles with satisfaction. "Go on, Spock, I've got a few more things to say."

Hoping that the doctor would delegate to speaking with his words rather than with his fists, Spock slipped past Jim's spluttering stepfather and into the house, closing the door behind him as an afterthought. The last thing he saw was the surprising sight of McCoy ordering Frank into the decrepit porch swing, the larger man struggling to fit onto the precarious surface with an unexpected meekness.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was utterly unfamiliar, yet strangely nostalgic at the same time. The walls seemed closer together than he remembered, the ceiling lower, and Spock reminded himself that he had never been here before. Physically, at least.

He stopped in front of the closed door at the end of the hall, his fingers hovering hesitantly above the latch before gripping it resolutely and turning. The door gave way with a soft groan of complaint, and Spock stepped into the bedroom of Winona Kirk. The room was, unsurprisingly, as dark and unkempt as the rest of the house's interior, small clouds of dust rising beneath each step the Vulcan took.

"Lights," he said experimentally, and when no system obliged, he reached out and felt along the wall until he found a switch. The old electric bulbs were dirty, but still operational, and they cast a flickering glow over the room.

It was clear that the space had been out of use for some time; dust sheets covered the furnishings and it seemed like various pieces of furniture had migrated here over time from different locations throughout the house. Spock could make out what appeared to be an out of order food replicator as well as several outdated holovision models piled in one corner.

His feet led him to a bulky object pushed against the wall, and he pulled the covering aside to reveal a chest of drawers, stained with age and the silver fittings black with tarnish, but still in one piece.

Spock scanned the top of the chest carefully, unsurprised to find that the object he sought was absent. The last he'd seen of it had been in Jim's memories, flying through the air in a glittering arc. But this was its last known location, and therefore it was the Vulcan’s only hope of locating the item in this clutter, and so he dutifully pulled open the first drawer and began to search.

He uncovered a stack of old, faded clothing, three handheld datapads with cracked screens, an empty brown beer bottle-

_"Who am I, Captain Pike?"_

Spock paused, uncertain if he had imagined the whisper, and he continued. The next drawer contained a bound parcel of handwritten envelopes, all of them unopened-

_"Your father's son."_

He looked around the room, feeling an odd sense of familiarity, before he forced his eyes back to the task at hand.

_Pike had the look of a man who'd seen through more bullshit in his life than one green country boy was capable of. He looked at Jim now, earnest in a calculating way that even Jim could see through his swelling eye._

_"You know that instinct, to leap without looking, that was his nature too. And in my opinion, it's something Starfleet's lost."_

_"Why are you talking to me, man?" Jim scoffed, squinting blurrily at the table between them. He was hungry, sore, and honestly, a sermon was the last thing he needed right now._

_"Because I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor," Pike said, an authoritative edge entering his mild voice. "Your aptitude tests are off the charts, so what is it? You like being the only genius-level offender in the Midwest?"_

_"Maybe I love it." He twitched a smirk, knowing it'd piss the older man off._

_But he had to hand it to Pike for keeping it together. The captain only gazed at him evenly for a moment before continuing, “So your dad dies, you can settle for a less than ordinary life? But you feel like you were meant for something better. Something special." He searched Jim's bruised face, his own expression unreadable._

_The next statement was as unpredictable as the sucker punch that had split Jim's lip. "Enlist in Starfleet."_

_Jim snorted, regretting it instantly as he tasted blood on his tongue._

_"Enlist- you guys must be way down on your recruitment quota for the month-"_

_"If you're half the man your father was, James, Starfleet could use you. You could be an officer in four years, you could have your own ship in eight. You understand what the Federation is, don't you? It’s important. It's a peacekeeping humanitarian armada-"_

_"We done?" Jim looked up, a flicker of true anger seething in his gut. He didn't need to hear this from some self-righteous uniform, talking about his father as if he had any idea what Jim had gone through because of who he was. Like George Kirk meant something more to him than just a name and a couple of photos._

_Pike stared at him silently, then leaned back in his seat. "I'm done."_

_His chair scraped against the linoleum as he pushed away from the table and stood, looking down at Jim._

_"Riverside shipyard. Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow at 0800."_

_He paused a second longer, then said quietly, "You know, your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother’s. And yours.” He gazed straight at Jim, his stare direct and knowing._

_“I dare you to do better.”_

Spock shook his head slightly, warding off the vestiges of the memory. The fourth and final drawer was empty, and he closed it with perhaps slightly more force than necessary.

_He remembered a flash of silver metal, the distant memory of an angry shout and a bruising grip around his arm. They were somewhere here, they had to be-_

_He tore the drawer clean away from the chest and emptied its contents onto the floor, dropping to his knees and fumbling through the scattered objects. No, no, it wasn't here, where had Frank put it?_

_The thought suddenly occurred to Jim that maybe it was still in the corner where it had been thrown, and he wheeled around unsteadily, the alcohol in his system not helping his already dizzying state of mind._

_His breaths were coming in rough, heavy exhales, almost hurting his throat as he swallowed and tried to pull himself together. He couldn't just fall apart like this, because it'd prove Pike right, somehow. It'd prove them all right, every shrink, every adult, every so-called friend in this backwater town. That Jim Kirk could never live up to his father's name._

_Bitter anger tore at his throat again and he slammed his fist back against one of the drawers he had haphazardly pulled out, shoving it harshly back in place with a resounding bang._

_He'd never had anything before that was truly his, something to be proud of, something to call his own. This....this was the closest thing to that._

Spock was caught briefly off balance as his vision suddenly slid back into focus, and he reached out to steady himself against the wall. It felt uneven beneath his hand, the white surface rough in some areas and smooth in others…..it was then that a wave of inconsolable despair gripped him, and he closed his eyes against the utter helplessness of it.

_Jim felt the wall at his back and let his knees buckle, sliding down slowly to the floor as his eyes burned and prickled, his chest tightening as he drew in one ragged breath after another. His hands were empty, a mockery of what he’d never had to begin with, and the glimmer of silver in his mind was already fading to a more tolerable regret. It had been one thing of his father's that meant something to him, the reason behind what he’d done for those people, the will behind his legacy._

Spock dug his fingers into the plaster, his heart pounding as the memory overwhelmed him once more. Despite years of mastering his own emotions, those in Jim’s memories were still stronger, more unpredictable, uncontrollable by any means he knew.

_He’d had enough of this, he thought abruptly. He’d had enough of barely scraping by every week, of the fights and the sneers and the whispers that hadn’t died down in twenty-two years and probably never would. His father hadn’t died for this, for his son to wallow in some nameless hole in the ground. He was tired of the look in people’s eyes when he introduced himself, the spark of recognition and realization that died and twisted into something almost pitying when they looked him up and down._

_He was done with screwing up._

_The sky was lightening now, Jim realized with an ache in his heart, shadows shifting across the floorboards as dark black gave way to the beginnings of dawn. He raised his head, blinking slowly as the pale blue of the horizon glowed through the sharp edges of the distorted window. The window pane had a defect in the glass where it had pooled thicker on the bottom than the top, something that had always caught his attention. It was a disaster, really, but the way the glass bent and broke the light……turned it into something incandescent, something brilliant…...who said he couldn’t do the same?_

Spock raised his head and opened his eyes, his vision still caught in an odd shift between realities. He watched closely, nearly able to make out Jim's form as the young man stood and looked up. Without thinking, Spock turned to follow his gaze towards the window.

He saw the dark shape of what he surmised to be an ancient piano, two covered paintings propped up against the bench……a teetering tower of overflowing boxes……and there, in the dusty shadow just beneath what used to serve as a bedframe, where Jim had not been able to see it in the early light of morning and his own emotional state, was a glint of metal.

…

McCoy had Jim’s stepfather cringing as far back as the porch swing would allow by the time Spock rejoined him outside, closing the door quietly behind him.

“You good?” McCoy asked, breaking off his lecture to look questioningly at Spock, who responded with a simple nod and stepped past him onto the porch stairs.

McCoy threw Frank one last dirty look before falling in step beside Spock obligingly. They were halfway to the drive when the sound of creaking came from the porch, followed by Frank’s voice.

“So the little brat's a Starfleet Captain now, is he?” the man called after them, giving an incredulous laugh. “Who’d he have to screw to manage _that_?”

Spock and McCoy froze instantly.

The Vulcan glanced at his companion, noting the doctor’s paling face before the man whirled around and marched straight back to the house.

Frank had just enough time to step back in growing alarm before McCoy seized the front of his stained shirt and slammed his formidable bulk against the front door. Spock, who had followed instantly as soon as he realized the other man’s trajectory, was slightly impressed to see that the doctor managed to lift Frank slightly off his feet. Clearly, he had underestimated McCoy’s strength under great circumstances of emotional distress.

“What the hell do you think-” Frank spluttered, his face reddening as McCoy twisted his fist and pulled him higher onto his toes.

“Shut up,” the doctor snapped, his expression more livid than Spock had ever seen it. “You’re lucky I took the damn oath, you bastard.”

“Doctor,” Spock attempted to intervene, but McCoy ignored him, yanking at Frank’s collar until the other man met his eyes.

"Now you listen to me, you worthless scumbag, Jim Kirk's the best man I know, the best Captain the Fleet’s ever likely to see, and it takes more than an asshole like you to break him.” McCoy paused to take a breath and Spock glanced at him wordlessly. "That kid _chose_ to make something out of himself, something better than the life you gave him, the life he was born with. He’s something special, you hear me? And people like you don't deserve to-”

“Leonard,” Spock said firmly, grasping the doctor’s elbow. McCoy blinked, as if realizing that Frank’s face had begun to turn purple, and he dropped him unceremoniously. Frank collapsed onto the porch with a choked gurgle, coughing and wheezing as McCoy glared down at him in disgust.

“Jim’s waiting,” Spock reminded him quietly, and with a final condescending glower, McCoy nodded stiffly and turned away.

“Let’s go, then.”

Spock remained silent as they walked, casting measuring glances at McCoy when the doctor wasn’t looking. It seemed like he would need to reevaluate his estimation of the man yet again after this incident. McCoy avoided his gaze as he started the car, and it wasn’t until they were backing out onto the road that he finally spoke.

“So you got it, then.”

“Indeed," Spock answered, with some degree of satisfaction.

A moment later, he opened his hand and gazed down at what he held, smoothing his fingers over the dog tags and tilting them so that the inscriptions glinted in the dim lighting within the vehicle. “I believe I have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the feedback, everyone, we really appreciate it :) There's one more chapter left, so we'd love to hear what you think of the story up to this point. Thanks again!


	15. Chapter 15

The interviews were finished, the press finally content with whatever they’d managed to pry out of Starfleet authorities, and Jim was, honestly, thoroughly relieved to be done with all of it. He’d slept well for the first time in what felt like weeks last night and woken up after sunrise, an equally rare feat. The text comm waiting for him had been a surprise, though, sent by McCoy sometime around two in the morning. Jim had squinted at the area code, wondering vaguely what the doctor had been doing out of state, before the rest of the message distracted him.

So far, he had followed McCoy’s instructions to the letter and made himself breakfast before dressing for a cool day in jeans and a black shirt, his old denim jacket tossed over the back of a chair. Now he was waiting for McCoy and Spock’s arrival at eleven, sprawled out in an armchair and catching up on paperwork.

The buzzer rang promptly at ten to eleven, and he looked up distractedly from his PADD, settling his stylus down on the coffee table.

"Good morning, Captain," Spock said politely, as soon as he opened the door.

“Morning.” Jim stepped back to let them in, tucking the datapad beneath his arm.

"Good, you're ready," McCoy said, eyeing Jim's clothing critically. He made to move past the doorway into the apartment, then froze, eyes riveted on the PADD in his hand. "What's that?"

 _Ah, shit_.

“Nothing.” Jim tried to shift the PADD behind his back, but it was too late.

“Are you doing work?” McCoy demanded sternly, eyes narrowing in disapproval. “On your day off?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim said, trying for nonchalance as he glanced at Spock for help. The Vulcan stared back passively and Jim flicked his eyes nervously back to McCoy as the doctor advanced.

“You know why we’re going to the beach, right? To have fun. You remember what that’s like, Jim?”

“What, and you’re Mr. Sunshine all of a sudden?”

“Give it to me,” McCoy ordered, holding out his hand authoritatively.

Jim automatically raised the PADD before him, clutching it defensively to his chest. “No.”

“ _Jim._ ”

“Come on, man, I’m almost finished-” he dodged the sudden swipe McCoy made for the datapad, stretching out his arm and holding it out of the doctor’s reach. “Hey!”

“Give it-”

“Bones, it’s too early for this!” Jim protested desperately, standing on his toes to keep the PADD above McCoy’s head as the doctor made another lunge for it.

“It’s….eleven…..in the morning,” McCoy snapped, panting slightly from exertion as he yanked at the front of Jim’s shirt. “Hardly….early.”

Jim tried to step away and tripped over his own feet, losing his balance and sending them both toppling to the floor. He landed on his back beneath McCoy, who quickly took advantage of his position to straddle Jim’s waist, still straining for the PADD.

“Don’t you…think…..you’re overreacting?” Jim wheezed, breathless from the fall.

“I like to think of it as intervention,” McCoy jibed, successfully snatching the datapad out of Jim’s flailing hand. “Aha, got it, you overworked ass-”

"Enough." Spock's voice cut through the sounds of their struggle, and Jim looked over in surprise to see the Vulcan's carefully composed expression; only the slightest twitch of his lip gave away what could be called amusement on anyone else.

McCoy cursed under his breath, but climbed to his feet and offered Jim his hand, which the younger man gratefully took as he pulled himself up.

“You know what I think,” he muttered to McCoy, releasing the doctor’s hand. “I think you should’ve gone with command track instead. You’re bossy enough.”

“Well, _I_ think it’s about time for a drink,” McCoy said, clearly not caring. And he promptly crossed the room to raid the minibar.

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Jim parroted, raising an eyebrow as the man rummaged through the selection.

“Like I said, hardly early,” McCoy retaliated, then made a satisfied sound when he found a drink to his liking. “I’m just getting warmed up, kid. We’re on leave, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Are we?” Jim said, rolling his shoulders absently. He was feeling much better now, if a bit stretched out from the previous two days, and it was only beginning to slowly sink in that the crisis was over.

“Doctor,” Spock said suddenly, a hint of reproach in his voice, and Jim opened his eyes to see the Vulcan pluck the bottle delicately from McCoy’s hand. “Need I remind you that, as I do not own a vehicular license on Earth at this time and the captain possesses no appropriate means of transport, you are the logical choice for our designated driver.”

“You know how many piloting sims I’ve sat through punch drunk? Trust me, if I can navigate a tiny death trap of a shuttle through-”

“It is also counterproductive for a physician to indulge in such debilitating practices,” Spock countered instantly. “As your friend, I am obliged to discourage you from self-harm.”

Jim watched, vaguely interested, as McCoy opened and closed his mouth several times, glancing furiously between the bottle in his hand and Spock's patient expression. The moment concluded with a victorious first officer tucking the bottle back in the fridge and a disgruntled doctor crossing his arms and scowling down at the process.

“Self-harm’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” McCoy muttered halfheartedly, unwilling to let Spock have the final say.

“You’ve never been one for subtleties,” Jim pointed out. “At least, not when it comes to your drinks.”

"Well, it's been that kind of a mission," McCoy grumbled. "Everyone's got needs, y'know. And mine are calling for a day on the sand with a cold beer and a towel. It's a good thing you wanted to go in the first place. Not to mention this one's never been there." He jerked his head towards Spock. "Can you believe it? Living here for so long and not hitting the beach once."

“As you are well aware, Doctor, my species is incompatible with large bodies of water and therefore, I have never seen the logic in attempting an expedition,” Spock said primly. “However, I have been….persuaded.”

“Well, there you have it,” McCoy said briskly, grabbing Jim’s jacket off the chair and tossing it at him. “Come on, kid, we’re outta here in ten.”

…

Jim was more than a little impressed by the car McCoy had waiting at the curb. It must have been a new acquisition, still sparkling and streak-free under the bright sun. The body was sleek and low, the cherry red top flipped open to expose the tan interior seats, and even from the sidewalk, he could tell how good the sound system was. "This can't be yours."

“Always the cynic,” McCoy snorted, running a fond hand over the top of the door as he let himself into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve underestimated you, Bones.” Jim vaulted over the side with a grin to sprawl out over the backseat, kicking his feet up on top of the doors as Spock took over the passenger side. “I hope you’ve brought drinks.”

“Cooler’s in the trunk,” McCoy said, swiping his keycard. “Mind the paint. And put your damn seatbelt on.” He pulled away from the curb as Jim struggled to clip on his seatbelt while still reclining, and they were off.

It wasn’t long before Jim could see the blue of the ocean as they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and he squinted to get a better look, feeling a stir of excitement as the wind tugged sharply at his jacket collar. He sat up and twisted in the seat to hang his head out the side, resting his chin on his folded arms as they neared the beach, until McCoy yelled over his shoulder to “pull his fool head back in before he loses it.”

They stopped in a secluded lot at the top of a grassy slope overlooking the white sand, and Spock volunteered to pay the parking fee while the other two secured an appropriate location. Jim hopped out and stretched as the Vulcan strolled off towards the meter, and when he straightened, he saw that McCoy was leaning against the car door beside him.

“You been sleeping okay?” The question was casually formed, but Jim still remembered how concerned the doctor had been in those final hours before the Memorial.

“Pretty good,” Jim answered, popping the trunk and fishing out the small cooler and the folded blanket beneath it. When he lowered the trunk, McCoy was watching him steadily.

“Nightmares?” the doctor asked quietly, reaching for the items, and Jim handed them over, pausing to think for a moment.

"No," he finally replied, surprised at his own answer. "Not anymore."

"At all?" McCoy raised his eyebrows, seeming unconvinced.

"It's getting better," Jim clarified, looking up at him. McCoy held his gaze with growing understanding, tilting his head thoughtfully as he considered the younger man.

Spock returned then, with such perfect timing that Jim had to wonder how much he’d overheard. They divvied up the load, McCoy handing the cooler off to the Vulcan and commandeering the folded blanket for himself, and they set off down the slope.

There were only a few others on the beach as they approached, dark figures about half a mile to the left and right of them. Jim kicked his shoes off promptly upon reaching the sand, leaving them carelessly at the bottom of the slope. The water was so close, he could hear the waves as they crashed distantly against the beach.

“Slow down, the water’s not going anywhere,” McCoy grunted, shaking out the blanket. “Here, Spock, help me out with this….”

Jim stripped off his shirt, ignoring the faint sardonic snort from McCoy’s direction as he wadded it into a ball and tossed it beside his shoes, followed by his jeans and leaving him in nothing but his black briefs.

“Be careful!” McCoy called out after him, but Jim was already in the water with a loud whoop. It was colder than he’d expected, splashing up his calves as he waded deeper, and he grinned as the pebbly sand shifted under his feet.

"Glad he's having fun, at least," McCoy muttered, tearing his eyes away from Jim as the younger man waded deeper, and he returned his attention to making himself comfortable on the blanket. Once he was settled, he glanced up at Spock and saw that the Vulcan was watching Jim intently, frowning slightly in concern. "What?"

“Is it customary for the waves to be at that height, Doctor?”

Surprised, McCoy looked towards the ocean. “They’re a bit high today, I suppose. Nothing too risky, though. Then again, it’s Jim.”

"Do you think it is wise for him to be swimming in such uncertain circumstances?" Spock asked, still staring off in Jim's direction, and McCoy couldn't help his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You know, you’re just as bad as me.”

Spock finally looked down at him, eyebrows lifting reflexively. “I do not understand.”

McCoy shrugged, lying back with his hands folded comfortably under his head. "Overprotective tendencies. It's an occupational hazard, being a friend of Jim Kirk's."

Spock looked away stiffly, but didn’t deny it, and McCoy stifled a smile. He hadn’t forgotten the conversation they’d had what seemed like ages ago now, about Vulcans and their emotions, and there was something almost endearing now in Spock’s defensive stance.

“Go on,” he prompted, gesturing towards Jim impatiently. “It’ll be good for the both of you.” Put the kid in stitches from laughter, most likely, once he realized why Spock was there, but McCoy refrained from voicing the thought aloud.

Spock hesitated a second longer, looking at the empty spot beside McCoy, then over at Jim splashing in the shallows before dipping his head in a short nod. It wasn’t until the Vulcan was halfway down the beach before McCoy realized he’d forgotten to tell him to leave his shoes behind.

Jim floated on his back, trying to keep his balance. The occasional wave threatened to roll him over, leaving him spluttering and blinking salt water from his stinging eyes, but for now he bobbed peacefully under the blue sky, gazing up and wondering how his ship was doing.

A few of the more enthusiastic engineers, Scotty included, had deigned to remain behind on the _Enterprise_ during repairs, and he’d received several hasty reports filling him on the details in the few days since the start of leave. It seemed like everything was in order and would, for all intents and purposes, be back to normal soon. Although “normal” for him, he realized, wasn’t the same as it was for everyone else.

“Captain.”

He looked up, startled, to see Spock standing a safe distance away from the water, eyeing the lapping waves with a deep suspicion he usually reserved for Jim when he thought the younger man was attempting something particularly stupid. “Hey.”

“The doctor insisted,” Spock said by way of explanation, stepping back when a stray wave came too close to his shoes.

"I bet he did." Jim swam closer and stood, surveying Spock with growing interest. "Well, come on in, you can't babysit from way over there."

Spock paused, then awkwardly removed his shoes, lining them up carefully away from the water before glancing at Jim again.

“You know how to swim?” Jim was growing more and more comfortable in his role as impromptu instructor.

“I do not.”

“Hmm, well, now’s as good a time to learn as any. Come on.” Jim backed deeper in the water as he spoke, feeling it reach his waist.

Spock looked almost uneasy at this point, or as close to it as he could possibly get. “Jim, I do not believe that this is a safe course of action.”

“Should’ve brought my board,” Jim mused, gazing out over the ocean. “Got some nice waves coming in.” He looked over at Spock expectantly. “You ready?”

“If you insist on teaching me how to swim, Captain, I propose that it be in a safe and controlled environment,” Spock said firmly, and Jim stared at him for a moment before realizing that his first officer wasn’t going to bend on this one. Just as well, he supposed, thinking of how recent Spock’s surgery had been. If he got the Vulcan an infection from this or, even worse, aggravated the injury, Bones would never let him live it down.

Jim shrugged casually. “Suit yourself. But at least get your feet wet.”

Spock didn’t move and Jim shrugged again before turning and swimming back out against the waves. He thought he heard McCoy shout something about it being too cold, but paddled on blithely. He’d warm up from the exercise soon enough, and growing up in Iowa had hardly been a tropical experience.

However, the water didn’t get any warmer, despite his efforts, and he eventually had to concede defeat, staggering out of the waves and taking the towel Spock offered him gratefully.

"Told you," McCoy drawled, as soon as he was close enough to hear. The doctor had made himself comfortable on the blanket, tilting back a pair of dark sunglasses and grinning lazily as Jim approached, shaking water out of his hair.

"I'll drip on you," Jim threatened halfheartedly, flopping onto his stomach beside McCoy.

"You're going to burn like a lobster," the doctor informed him. "Just because it's nice out doesn't mean the sun's stopped working."

“Lotion in my pocket,” Jim gestured vaguely at the pile of clothing he’d carried over to the blanket and yawned, the warm sun sending him into a sleepy lull already. “Might want to get Spock, too.”

“I assure you, I am more accustomed to heated environments than you are, Captain,” came Spock’s dry reply.

McCoy grumbled, but Jim heard some rustling a moment later, followed by another muttered complaint as the doctor discovered the disposable packet of sunscreen in his jacket.

“What’s the holdup?” Jim called over his shoulder when it seemed like the doctor was taking too long inspecting the packet. He heard the cooler open and wondered if McCoy was going to hand him a drink instead and tell him to put on his own damn lotion, before he felt a familiar jab in his neck and an accompanying hiss.

“Ow, what the-”

“That’ll keep you from overheating, at least,” McCoy said, tossing the hypo back in the cooler with a satisfied smirk. “Do a better job than that cheap-ass gunk you call sunscreen.”

“Whatever,” Jim grumbled. “I can’t believe you brought that thing with you.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” McCoy flipped his sunglasses back down and resumed his supine position. “Now be quiet.”

“Boring,” Jim sighed, sitting up and rubbing at his sore neck. “Sit down, Spock, you’re giving me a headache from looking up at you.”

The Vulcan hesitated, then obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the blanket beside Jim.

“Come on, loosen up.” Jim clapped Spock’s shoulder casually. “You’ve never had a day out before?”

“I do not usually find myself in social situations outside of business-related activities.”

“No dates, then?” Jim reclined back again, shading his eyes with his hand as he peered up at Spock expectantly. “No extracurricular wooing with Lieutenant Uhura?”

Spock looked distinctly uncomfortable, shifting slightly where he sat before answering evenly, “I have not yet attempted to…..to further our relationship in such ways. It is a very forward step in my culture to bring one’s courtship to the attention of the public.”

“Yeah?” Jim blinked up at him with growing interest. “So the kissing, then, that’s completely and utterly scandalous.”

“Look who’s talking,” McCoy scoffed. “I’ve seen how you look at the lovely Dr. Marcus.”

"Me?" Jim sputtered, sitting up in indignation. "What about you? I've been staying off her tail because I thought you liked her. Not that I blame you, she's gorgeous, smart…." He trailed off when he saw McCoy push himself up on one elbow, grinning knowingly at Spock.

“It’s not gonna happen,” Jim hastily assured. “You two would probably hit it off well, you’re both science types and all.” He avoided the doctor’s gaze as he grabbed for his shirt, pulling it over his head on impulse before reaching for his pants.

“Uh huh.” McCoy nodded understandingly, still smirking.

It took all of ten minutes for Jim to wipe the smile from McCoy’s face with a well-selected memoir of their less than stellar Academy years.

By the time they picked themselves up off the sand, it was halfway through the afternoon, heavy white clouds skidding slowly across the sky and blotting out the sun intermittently as they strolled aimlessly along the edge of the beach. There were a few ragtag shops along the shoreline selling trinkets and a few oddities that Jim insisted they had to see, and Spock proceeded to lecture McCoy on the irrationality of his purchases as the doctor rounded up a few choice souvenirs.

They’d finally convinced Spock into the water, or at least close enough for the waves to lap at his ankles, and Jim stifled his laughter while the Vulcan maintained an expression of intense concentration as the sand slipped away beneath his feet.

By unspoken assent, McCoy spread the blanket again as the sun began to set, and they sat, watching as pink and orange light streaked across the wet sand in shadowy stripes. Jim gazed at the sky for a long moment, watching in fascination as the sun stained the clouds around it with red and purple hues. After months spent in space, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to see a sunset from the other side. “Thanks for this,” he said at last, not needing to specify his meaning.

McCoy cleared his throat, flipping open the cooler and pulling out a beer. "The day's not over just yet." He popped the lid and took a single sip, eyeing Spock pointedly, before passing it to Jim. "Here, I've got to drive us back after this."

Jim took the drink, glad for the cool liquid trickling down his throat even as the familiar bitter taste coated his tongue. He felt eyes on him as he tilted his head back again, and he met Spock’s impassive gaze.

“You wanna try?” he asked jokingly, waving the bottle, and the Vulcan blinked at him slowly.

"Jim, you idiot, Vulcans can't drink that stuff," McCoy reprimanded, jostling Jim's elbow, but the younger man only frowned thoughtfully in response.

“They can’t get drunk off it, doesn’t mean they can’t drink it. It’s more for pleasure, anyways.” He took another swig and offered it to Spock. “Here.”

Spock eyed the bottle with no little wariness, every logical sensibility in his mind urging him to refuse the offer, and yet…..he had to admit to some measure of curiosity. He was merely broadening his cultural awareness, he reasoned.

“Well?” Jim looked at him expectantly, the fading sunlight catching his eyes in such a way that it somehow magnified the particular color and hue that Spock had always found to be remarkable.

He found himself reaching for the bottle, and by the time it was raised to his lips, he found no reason to stop. He paused as the peculiar taste filled his mouth, unsure whether to swallow or…..there was no graceful alternative to the situation, and so he politely downed the mouthful.

“So?” Jim grinned at him, and Spock attempted to carefully phrase his response.

"It is not….entirely compatible with my tastes," he concluded, returning the bottle. Jim shrugged good-naturedly and took another sip, dangling the bottle between his knees as he gazed at the sunset. It was a moment before he realized that McCoy was looking at him with an unexpected solemnity for an off day at the beach, his head tilted pensively in Jim's direction.

“What?” Jim raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Was it her, then?” the doctor asked quietly. “At the memorial?”

Spock looked up sharply at this new information, and Jim took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, his voice matching McCoy’s pitch. “It was.”

“And…” McCoy paused carefully, struggling to broach the topic in a noninvasive manner. “It went well?”

Jim shrugged, swirling his bottle absently. "As well as it could have, I suppose. She's gone now, though."

“Hmm.” McCoy looked at him consideringly for a moment, then sighed. “I was looking forward to meeting her,” he admitted wistfully. “Must be a hell of a woman.”

Jim's mouth twitched in amusement at the withering look Spock cast in the doctor's direction and raised the bottle to his lips again. "Maybe you will one day."

McCoy shifted subtly towards Spock, tipping his head in silent inquiry, and the Vulcan gave a slight shake of his head, closing his fingers reflexively around the small object waiting in his pocket.

The brief silence finally caught Jim’s attention, and he frowned at the two of them curiously. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” McCoy responded, shifting his gaze from Spock to Jim. “Just thinking that it was about time we take off.”

“Oh.” Jim looked back regretfully at the ocean.

“We’re not done yet, don’t worry,” McCoy told him, groaning with exertion as he pushed himself to his feet and reached down to give Jim a hand up. “One last stop.”

The last stop, it turned out, was a seafood restaurant a couple of miles south, perched on the edge of a bluff overlooking the ocean. Jim squinted at the building uncertainly as he stepped out of the car. “You sure we can get a table here?” he asked, eyeing the patrons trailing in and out.

"It's all covered," McCoy reassured, placing a hand on his back and propelling the younger man forward. The interior of the restaurant was more upscale than Jim was used to, despite the formal dinners he'd been forced to attend while making nice with countless ambassadors. They gradually made their way across the gleaming marble floor to the front desk, where Jim grinned uneasily at the hostess until she blushed appropriately.

“Name?”

“Jim Kirk,” he said confidently, easing into familiar territory now, and he leaned against the counter casually to catch her eye. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

"Unbelievable," McCoy muttered incredulously. "Name's McCoy, miss, party of three," he told the hostess, and Jim's breezy smile faltered briefly as the young woman rose instantly, gathering up an armful of menus.

"Smooth," Jim mumbled, as she led them to the second-floor and towards an alcove set into the marble walls.

"It's the accent," McCoy mouthed behind the hostess' back as she seated them and handed out their menus. "Be just a sec with the orders, sweetheart," he said aloud, and her blush darkened several shades before she withdrew, pulling the privacy curtain halfway closed.

“Fascinating,” was Spock’s only comment, as he raised his menu and began perusing the vegetarian selection.

Jim looked around, taking in the other tables in the wide room, two empty and the other four occupied by politely conversing parties. One wall was completely composed of floor to ceiling windows, half of the glass panels slid open to let in the night breeze. He could taste the slightest trace of salt from the ocean, hear the faint tinkling of chimes in the distance.

"This is nice," he said quietly, tracing along the gleaming table appreciatively. It was real wood, not the synthetically produced material nowadays, and he rubbed at a faint smudge in the lacquer distractedly with his napkin.

“Yeah, well, you deserve something nice,” McCoy said nonchalantly, scanning his own menu.

Jim turned in his seat to face him, a suspicion that’d been gnawing at him all day finally coming to light. “You planned this all out, then. The beach, the dinner, everything.” He saw Spock grow still out of the corner of his eye, the Vulcan’s head turning slightly behind the menu to face McCoy.

McCoy paused, looking up to regard Jim for a moment. “Well, we had to celebrate sometime, right?”

Jim blinked, caught off guard. “Celebrate?”

The doctor gave an offhanded shrug, but his ears were turning red as he continued, “We would’ve liked to do this on your actual birthday, but with everything that happened……well, we thought it’d be best to wait it out a bit.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jim said at last, still stunned. He honestly hadn’t given his birthday a second thought after leaving his mother- somehow, in the face of everything that had happened that day, the date of his own birth had seemed insignificant in contrast.

McCoy frowned slightly, his expression shifting between bewilderment and exasperation. “You think we felt obligated or something? We wanted to do it, Jim.”

Jim’s eyes flickered between him and Spock, and he opened his mouth to say something just as the curtain behind McCoy stirred in warning.

The waitress stepped through to take their orders, and Jim picked the first thing off the menu that he could pronounce. The food came sooner than he expected, and they spent the next twenty minutes sampling the local seafood cuisine, Spock picking appreciatively through the massive bowl of salad the server had placed before him. The moon grew larger and brighter as time passed, painting the dark ocean almost completely silver, and after the flurry of fabric settled behind the servers carting their plates away, Jim reluctantly pushed back from the table.

“How much?”

McCoy gave him a disparaging look. “It’s for your _birthday_ , kid. You think I was brought up to let someone pay for his own damn party? Bill’s covered.”

Jim frowned, protesting, “I can’t let you-”

“Rest assured, Captain, that it is of no inconvenience to the two of us,” Spock said. “In fact, I must insist that you cease arguing.”

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be,” Jim finally settled, unable to suppress a smile at McCoy’s triumphant expression.

"They've got a skywalk around back," the doctor said, pulling out a credit chip and transferring the funds to the scanner set in the side of the table. "It's a nice view, from what I heard."

The skywalk turned out to be a balcony wrapped around the second level of the restaurant, facing out from the overhang towards the ocean. Jim looked around curiously as they exited the glass doors onto the terrace, the cool night wind making him glad for his jacket. He wondered suddenly if Spock found this temperature too cold, but the Vulcan’s expression remained unperturbed as they walked out farther.

Strands of iridescent white lights, scattered star-like against the black night, were strung around the narrow columns supporting the roof, giving the empty space an almost surreal glow. The three of them crossed over the smooth floor to the rail, Jim leaning over the cold stone to watch the silvery glimmer of the ocean far below as the moon appeared from behind shifting clouds.

Then, an idea struck him, and he tested the surface beneath his hands casually, gauging the width of the rail as it curved around the balcony. He’d seen worse, he decided, and promptly hoisted himself up.

“What are you doing?” McCoy demanded immediately, looking like he wanted to yank Jim down, but was afraid to upset his balance. Beside him, Spock raised his eyebrows warily, tracking Jim’s progress intently as he stood on the railing, arms outstretched to maintain his balance.

McCoy swore anxiously, eyes fixed on Jim’s feet as he began to walk along the curved surface. “Damn it, Jim, you’re going to break your neck-”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.” Jim concentrated on walking in a straight line, placing one foot meticulously in front of the other despite the good four inches of support on either side on him.

“Captain, we are approximately twenty-five meters away from the water. An impact from this height will certainly prove damaging, if not fatal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” Jim murmured dryly.

“I believe this to be immensely unwise,” Spock added, as if to clarify further.

“I’m sure you do,” Jim assured him good-naturedly, grinning down at them.

“Get down right now,” McCoy snapped, his nerves fraying along with his patience. “You’re too reckless for your own damn good.”

“C’mon, Bones. You should join me, really. It’s a great view.” He proved his point by gesturing dramatically out over the ocean, and McCoy made a strangled sound as Jim hopped over a crack in the railing and resumed his pace.

“I would have thought that after the incident with your neighbor’s fence that you would be more wary of elevated locations,” Spock said, and Jim blinked down at him in surprise.

“What?”

“When you were seventeen, you took it upon yourself to walk the length of the neighboring property’s fence, a distance of approximately one point three kilometers,” Spock reminded him. “Time has obscured the memory to a certain degree, but I recall a broken radius and three fractured fingers.”

Jim grimaced, and he paused to look out over the ocean contemplatively. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that, you knowing that much about me.” With a resigned sigh, he resumed walking, then halted again when he realized something was off.

Both McCoy and Spock had stopped walking, the former glancing surreptitiously at the latter, and Jim frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Spock looked at him silently for a long moment, head tilted slightly in thought, and just as Jim was about to give up on the subject altogether, the Vulcan spoke.

“I have been considering a solution for this quandary, Captain, if you find the effects of the meld to be debilitating in any manner.”

"Yeah?” Jim asked slowly, still not sure what to expect.

“I have already begun the preliminary paperwork for my transfer in preparation for its necessity, and it would only require a simple signature on your behalf in order to finalize-”

" _What?_ " Jim stepped too far to the left, his foot slipping off the rail. McCoy lunged forward, keeping him upright with a hand on his arm as he landed awkwardly, and Jim was aware of the doctor's quiet litany of curses through the sounds of his own racing heartbeat. "A transfer?" he asked as soon as he recovered, hoping he'd heard wrong.

Spock paused, his eyes sliding towards McCoy for a brief second, and another realization hit Jim. “You two discussed this already? Without me?”

“You were…indisposed at the time,” Spock said delicately.

“I can imagine,” Jim muttered, remembering the occasion with a rueful clarity. He sighed, looking down at the floor for a second before raising his head again. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Mr. Spock.”

Spock frowned, "I do not unders--"

Jim gestured impatiently. "Isn't it obvious? The ship needs you."

“Captain, that seems highly illogical as I can easily be replaced--"

"Well, then, what if _I_ need you?"

A short silence followed, during which McCoy looked as if he couldn't decide between amusement and surprise, his eyebrows rising awkwardly instead and Spock was, predictably, rendered speechless.

Jim cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable beneath their sudden scrutiny. He could only be glad that they were alone on the balcony. "Here...I mean. What if I need you here on the _Enterprise_?"

"I....I do not comprehend how you are able to hold me in such high regard after what I have done,” Spock admitted.

Jim scratched the back of his head, looking faintly embarrassed. "The truth is… you were right. It's what I would've done." He waited, then offered a wry smile. "And we've both made decisions we're not proud of."

Spock was silent, considering his words, and there was an oddly proud expression on McCoy’s face as he watched the both of them.

Jim continued, “More importantly, you're not just a friend, you know? You're family, Spock. You're like a brother to me, you and Bones both." He stopped for a moment, looking intently between the two of them. "And I'd never trade that for anyone, or anything. So we'll work this out, I promise."

"How can you be certain that such a....delicate matter can be resolved?" Spock asked slowly, his brow furrowed.

Jim thought briefly, and then shrugged. "I'm not saying it's gonna be easy." He turned to McCoy, finding encouragement in the man's approving nod. "I'm just saying that when….when you care about someone, it's worth it to figure things out. And besides…" Jim gave Spock a knowing glance, one of his brilliant smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the Vulcan could not help but feel included in the shared moment of amusement. "I gotta say, this meld thing hasn't been all bad."

Jim paused, and when Spock didn’t answer, he asked tentatively, "So we're good?"

Spock raised his head, his eyes as unreadable as ever, and Jim unthinkingly held out his right hand. The Vulcan's eyebrows lifted instantly in undeniable surprise, and Jim cursed himself silently for being so rash. He knew Spock didn't do this kind of thing, he knew that, what kind of idiot was he to think they could just shake hands and move past this-

“Sorry,” he muttered, hand wavering awkwardly in mortification. Behind Spock, McCoy was making an impressively disjointed expression as he tried not to laugh out loud. “I just…”

"You misunderstand," Spock said, his voice sounding a bit odd, and Jim looked up apprehensively. He was surprised to see that the Vulcan's face was tinged green, his eyebrows furrowed in what would look like a severe frown if it didn't also closely resemble embarrassment. "It is….not customary for my people to reciprocate such a gesture under…casual circumstances."

Jim stared at Spock, striving to comprehend what it was that the Vulcan was painstakingly trying _not_ to say, and he blinked as it suddenly hit him. “Oh,” he mouthed speechlessly, his hand still frozen in mid-air. “Shit,” he said aloud, feeling his own face begin to heat up. “I didn’t mean-”

He stuttered to a shocked halt as Spock reached forward unexpectedly, bypassing Jim’s hand with graceful tact and wrapping his fingers around his forearm instead in a carefully maneuvered hold. After the shock had passed, Jim began to understand, and he returned the gesture, giving Spock's arm a tentative squeeze just beneath the elbow.

“This all right, then?” he asked hesitantly.

Spock merely tightened his grip for a second in response before letting go, returning to his normal stance with his hands folded behind his back. “It is acceptable,” he said at last, his mouth twitching slightly, and Jim couldn’t help but grin at him.

McCoy cleared his throat, seeming reluctant to interrupt the moment. “Sorry about the buzzkill and all, but it’s getting late. Should start heading back.”

Jim glanced at him, surprised. “All right,” he said, looking over the balcony one last time at the moonlit waves beneath them, the soft glow catching each swell and fall in brief, pale incandescence. The wind tugged lightly at his hair as he turned back to the other two, and there was something soothing about its presence. “Let’s go.”

The drive back was more subdued than Jim had expected, and he spent the duration of the ride lounging in the backseat and feeling the slight ache of exertion in his body now that he was lying down. The bruises he’d sustained at the Memorial had just begun to fade, and running around all day outside probably hadn’t helped matters. But he felt oddly content even with this small discomfort, satisfied in some way he probably couldn’t explain without sounding like an idiot.

It was pushing ten o’clock when they pulled up at his apartment building, and Jim got out slowly, looking at Spock and McCoy consideringly. “You have any plans for the rest of leave?”

McCoy shrugged. “Was thinking of heading down to Georgia day after next to see Jo. I’m staying at HQ in the meantime.”

“I am residing at headquarters as well,” Spock answered, then looked vaguely self-conscious as he added, “Lieutenant Uhura has expressed her interest in spending time together for some duration of shore leave.”

“Well.” Jim rubbed the back of his neck, gazing up at the lighted windows above them thoughtfully. “It’s a bit of a drive back to headquarters. You two could crash here for the night, you know. It won’t be any trouble.”

“We can’t do that,” McCoy protested automatically, but Jim saw the way he was eyeing the building wistfully.

“I’ve got a hot tub,” Jim reminded him, and the older man folded instantly with a disgruntled sigh and a nod. “Spock?”

Spock hesitated briefly, but Jim knew the battle was already won. After all, if McCoy was staying, there went his ride back to headquarters.

“If it is of no inconvenience,” the Vulcan finally relented.

“It isn’t,” Jim assured him, vaulting over the side of the car and rummaging for his keycard. “I’ve got an empty guest room, and Bones can take the couch.”

“Hey,” McCoy complained.

“Spock’s taller,” Jim reminded with a smirk, holding up his keycard. “Ready?”

They made their way back up to his apartment, Jim wondering offhandedly if he needed to restock the towels and whether he changed the sheets in the guest room. It’d been so long since he’d had someone over who wasn’t a call girl or one night stand…….never, he realized with a sudden jolt. He wasn’t too sure how he felt about that yet, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, knowing he wouldn’t be alone tonight.

He unlocked the door and let them through, closing it behind him as he stepped through after them. The lights were off, but the systems flicked them on as soon as the biosensors picked up his signature. Yawning, Jim tossed his jacket over the side of the couch, stretching his arms over his head. “Make yourselves at home.”

McCoy shrugged and obeyed, flopping down on the couch and sagging into the cushions with a satisfied sound. Spock looked at the man thoughtfully, perhaps trying to take a cue, before lowering himself down beside the doctor with only slightly more grace. Jim watched them go at it with a small smile, almost feeling nostalgic at the sight.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, and they looked up at him. “I honestly can’t remember having any good birthdays…..at least until after I enlisted. Had you to thank for that,” he grinned, looking at Bones, who rolled his eyes in gruff affection.

“I believe you are mistaken,” Spock said unexpectedly, and Jim turned towards him with a questioning look. “There is one year that holds particular significance in your life.” The Vulcan was watching him as he spoke, as if waiting for some sort of reaction. “Memories can be misleading, but a second perspective often offers a clearer overview.”

“What are you saying?” Jim asked slowly, beginning to feel a trace of apprehension. Beside Spock, McCoy was casting furtive looks at the Vulcan that Jim couldn’t decipher, and that only served to raise his guard.

"The day Admiral Pike attempted to recruit you for Starfleet," Spock said, his voice low and even. Jim tensed, wondering with a flicker of panic why the Vulcan was doing this. Then, it made sense, all of the glances between McCoy and Spock, the day out, the dinner- this conversation had been coming all along.

"You were performing the usual ritual on your birthday," Spock continued, "mainly involving several alcoholic beverages and willing partners for the night. However, it was on that day that you reached a…..different understanding."

Jim felt his throat tighten, his breath hitching oddly in his chest. He said nothing, and Spock went on, still watching him intently.

"When you returned to your home that evening, you were searching for something. Something that meant more to you than even you could fathom at the time."

"Stop," Jim said automatically, his heart beginning to race as he realized how much Spock had seen. "Please."

The Vulcan tilted his head slightly, mouth opening in query, but Jim cut him off before he could say another word. "It doesn't matter anymore," he heard himself say, his voice heavy with resignation.

"Why?" McCoy asked, and Jim wondered briefly how much he knew before answering dismissively.

"Because I never found it."

There was a long moment before either of them spoke, the Vulcan exchanging a glance with McCoy before reaching into his pocket, pulling out something in his fist that Jim couldn't see.

"This belongs to you," Spock said quietly, and he opened his hand.

Jim froze as he heard the faint clinking of metal, some part of him knowing what it was before Spock reached over and carefully placed the item in his palm.

Jim stared down disbelievingly, his fingers shaking slightly as he turned his father's tags over and over in his hand. He sat down heavily in the armchair across from the couch, overcome with recognition and deep-seated pain that he'd thought he had forgotten years ago. They were just as he remembered, the inscriptions smooth and fading beneath his fingertips, but the words still legible as he traced the letters.

“How did you-” he began, but his voice broke and he faltered, swallowing audibly. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek and wiped at it instantly, wondering when he’d started to cry. Then, another tear replaced the first and he took a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself.

This explained the comm from McCoy, he realized, and the area code that he had puzzled over that morning. They must have left the day Spock was released and taken a shuttle in order to make it back so fast, but Bones hated flying and Spock had just recovered….

Finally, McCoy spoke, his words pitched low in the silence. "He'd be proud of you, you know. After everything you've done." There was an affectionate pride in his voice that caused Jim to hesitate, his lip trembling slightly.

"Your father's death was not in vain, Jim," Spock added quietly. "If you were in any doubt of the motivations behind his actions that day, I believe you hold the very answer now. It was perhaps the most prominent gesture of love towards you that he could possibly express."

There was a short pause before McCoy shifted towards Jim, leaning forward intently. "It's about time you see yourself the way we do," he said, and Jim turned his gaze towards him helplessly.

“And how’s that?” he asked hoarsely, barely keeping his voice under control.

“You’re irreplaceable,” McCoy finished simply. “You always have been, Jim.”

Jim exhaled, his breath catching in a half-sob as he shook his head and looked down, wiping at his eyes again. He could feel the tags grow warm against his skin, the chain swinging loosely from his grip as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to compose himself.

He had believed in only one thing his whole life, that he wasn’t worth the love of the people around him, that he could never amount to enough. He had kept up the façade as long as he could- the women, the jokes, the arrogant confidence.

But then he met McCoy, who’d seen through most of his bullshit and never treated him differently despite his father’s name. And Spock, who’d taught him more than either of them knew, made him the captain he was now. They’d risked their lives for him, saved his life, stood by him more times than he could count, and more times than he knew he deserved. The tags he clutched in his hand now were just part of it.

He was looking at a crossroad, one he’d been approaching unknowingly all these years, and now it was finally here. He could choose to believe in something else, something that went against every instinct he’d fostered since before he could remember, because the truth was, he never considered that he was worth anything until he'd met them.

And it was that clear, that obvious. Jim opened his eyes, a new resolution sweeping over him as he looked up. Spock and McCoy were watching him silently, giving him the time he needed, and he felt a prickle of self-consciousness. But there was no ridicule in their eyes and he sat up straighter as he lifted the tags and slipped the chain over his head. He felt the warm metal rest beside his heart, the unfamiliar weight a welcome reminder, and the words came out easier than he had feared.

“All right.”

And like any other choice he’d made before, the ones that made him something more, something _better_ , the ones that’d changed his life forever starting from the day Pike challenged him…..

This one was no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, guys, this is the end of Brothers in Arms and as sad as we are to finish it, we had a great time working on it. This is a special thank you from me and Warrior717 for all of your feedback and support so far, and we'd love to hear what you thought of the story now that it's completed, so reviews are appreciated as always :)


	16. Audiobook Announcement

Hey guys, guess what? _Brothers in Arms_ in now being made into an audiobook! It's currently in production, and will take some time to make, as there are 15 chapters to record, but we are making significant progress. Once the audiobook is completed, it will be podcasted.

For any updates, you can follow mangopuffs on Tumblr, or you can continue to follow us, and we will send out one final alert once the story is ready to be podcasted. Until then, please let us know what you think or which chapters you'll be looking forward to listening to!


	17. Audiobook Update

Hi, we're back again with more news on the audiobook. We're still in the production stages and therefore do not have a schedule for each episode that will be podcasted. However, we are now introducing Episode 1 to you! Listen [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9MJFTpCTPP69Y0GPMrmvyg) and we hope you enjoy! :)


	18. FINAL Audiobook Update

Dear readers, we are very excited to announce that "Chance Encounters" and ALL chapters of “Brothers in Arms” are now available in audiobook, completed with narration, drama, music, and sound effects for your enjoyment! In a lot of ways, it's like listening to a movie with your eyes closed. :) 

We would love your feedback: Which chapters would you like to hear the most? How do you feel this story translated to audiobook? Would you like us to produce more in the future? Personally, we were excited to hear chapter 11, because it features a scene that's especially memorable to us, but we'd love to hear from you as well. You can do that by leaving us your thoughts in the comments section, under each episode, by clicking [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171/videos?sort=dd&view=0&shelf_id=0)

We had a lot of fun making this audiobook; to hear some great bloopers from our cast and crew, visit [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBCwdVAPaes)

Thank you all for staying with us! :) 

<3  
Warrior717

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Brothers in Arms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114516) by [mangochi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi), [Warrior717](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warrior717/pseuds/Warrior717)




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